


Blood Feud

by FandomDancer



Category: Ghostbusters (Movies 1984-1989)
Genre: Carnival, Civil War, Egon Possessed, Egon/Janine Reconcile, F/M, Ghost Possession, Ghost Torture, Peter's Past, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-05 19:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 70,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16816735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomDancer/pseuds/FandomDancer
Summary: Six months after the defeat of Vigo the Carpathian, Peter is forced to struggle with the memories of his parents' deaths and Ray faces the loss of his bookshop as a new ghost in New York makes it personal for the Ghostbusters. Meanwhile, newcomer Erica Crane picks up a book with dire consequences.





	1. The Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The rights to the Ghostbusters franchise are owned by Sony, Dan Aykroyd, Ivan Reitman, Harold Ramis, and Bill Murray. 
> 
> Original characters, however, are mine.
> 
> This fic can be seen as slightly AU. I tried to keep it in the movieverse but some parts of the animated series leaked in.
> 
> Thank you and I hope you enjoy reading. I would love to hear what you think of the story as well!
> 
> This is dedicated to Cait, Jack, and Mary, without whom I could never and would never have finished this. Thank you all so very very much!!

_June, 1990_

“No!”

Peter Venkman sat straight up in bed, his eyes flying open to be seared by the sunlight pouring through the open window. The covers slumped off of his sweat-soaked body and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, simultaneously trying to block the light and push away the images that had ravaged his mind only a few moments before. He pulled in breath after breath, unsure if he was trying to get his heart rate to slow down or simply get rid of the lingering scent in his nose. The smell was psychosomatic; he knew he was in Dana's apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, and he knew that the room around him smelled like her, that soft, warm, sweet smell comprised of skin and lotion and makeup. But the thick, cloying stench of a ground soaked by rain and the greasy odor of the funnel cakes intruded on his nose, a smell created only by his mind and the powerful nightmare he had just torn himself from. 

After a few moments, little fireworks of light began to explode against his eyelids from the pressure of his hands. He groaned softly and lowered his hands, the world swimming around him as he forced his eyes back open. His gaze landed on the single square of sunlight on the blanket heating up his legs, and he cringed away from it, moving to the edge of the bed and putting his feet on the cooler, man-made floor. He hunched over, pressing his elbows onto his knees and shoving his hands through his thinning hair, exhaling slower, letting the rest of his senses start to wake up and focus on the room around him.

The scents from his dream finally evaporated and the roar of his heart subsided into the low hum of the fan Dana always turned on for him when she left for work. It had been a bit of a joke between them: that Peter, who had spent his summers in the hot, humid climate of the Corn Belt, could barely function when temperatures in New York City soared above 80. Peter had commented that New York's high, close buildings, and heavy foot traffic contributed to a claustrophobic and therefore warmer atmosphere. Dana's solution was to buy him a fan and tell him to sit in Central Park for a little while every day. At first, Peter had scoffed at the idea, but he soon discovered he liked sitting in the Park. It gave him moments to think, clear his head, and dream up new scenarios and plots. For a man who had grown up feeding off of the energy of people, Peter Venkman enjoyed the moments of solitude.

Right now, however, he didn't want solitude. He wanted people. He wanted noise and static and bright lights and colors. He wanted anything that could remove the images of his dead parents from his mind. From the silence in the apartment, he figured Oscar was in daycare, which removed the 14-month old boy as a distraction. He was going to have to go someplace else.

As his body continued to wake up, his bladder informed him that it needed attention, and he could feel the coating of last night's dinner still on his teeth. His pajamas were stuck to him, clinging furiously to his skin, and the bedsheets were damp as well. _I'll be doing laundry today._

Peter stood up slowly, his body moving into a stretch that almost knocked him back onto the bed, and the dull pain of cramped muscles rolled through him. _Ugh! Not how I wanted to wake up this morning...or any morning!_ With a low grunt, he moved to the bathroom.

About an hour later, Peter trotted out into the morning bustle of New York City. It was nine-thirty and well past the first “official” rush hour of the day, but the second wave was already gearing up. The rumbling of vehicles and the whooshing sound of the wind filled his ears, overwriting the memory of the sounds from the nightmare. The air was cool but already wet: within a few hours it would be another scorching summer day. The gritty concrete crunched under Peter's feet as he started walking towards the subway, absently and almost automatically heading for his home-away-from-home: the Firehouse and Ghostbusters Headquarters. He could feel the pull towards the place, the promise of further forgetting his nightmare, and the hope of friends who might listen to him if he needed to talk. Well, at least one friend. Ray would be the best of his small circle to confide in. Energetic, optimistic, and as much of a dreamer as Peter himself, Ray would be able to empathize and care without getting too emotional about the whole thing. But he also would try to interpret the dream, analyze it, and that would force Peter into going into details he didn't want to go into. 

No, he didn't want to talk to Ray.

Egon Spengler was another option, but Peter was almost dismissing the thought as it occurred to him. Practical and brilliant, Egon would also ask for details, go for analysis, and completely miss the fact that Peter actually needed someone to talk to about the emotional side of it as well.

No, Egon was out too.

That left Winston. Peter just wasn't as close with Winston as with the others. Winston was a smart guy, good head on his shoulders, honest, hardworking, and probably the most socially 'normal' of the Ghostbusters. Which also meant that the quirks of Egon, Peter, and Ray usually went right over his head. Winston had made a point of distancing himself from the group for a while when they'd all been sued after the Gozer incident, and only Ray was really comfortable around him. Peter was no stranger to flighty attitudes, but he didn't care much for someone who would turn away from them when things went bad. Winston had tried to do that twice. 

No, no Winston either. And no Dana. She knew about his nightmares and he didn't like sharing them with her. He didn't like sharing anything negative with her, really. The fact that she had taken him back after Vigo tried to destroy the world had reshuffled Peter's priorities in life. He'd been miserable without her, and the moment he had walked back into her life he'd known he wasn't leaving it again unless she kicked him out. And so, he wasn't troubling her with his nightmares unless she was in the room when they happened.

_Which means you've got no one._

That left work. _That'll do._

The subway entrance was just ahead. Peter began to file towards it, seeing the people streaming in towards the stairs. He had to sidestep quickly as a woman with a buggy suddenly materialized in his field of vision. His shoulder met something and he staggered, instinctively reaching out to brace himself.

“I'm sorry!”

Peter looked over at a young woman with a pale and vaguely familiar face. Her large, dark eyes were wide with apology, and her teased brown hair floated around her head like a cloud. She tugged at the bottom of her dark blue suit jacket, seemingly trying to straighten an invisible wrinkle, and repeated: “Sorry,” in a smaller voice. Peter stared for a moment, trying to figure out why she looked so familiar, and realized belatedly that he should probably answer her.

“Naw, it's all right! Walking's an occupational hazard in New York, anyway. Even for the unemployed.”

Her smile turned from awkward to genuine and she shifted position, her high heels clicking on the pavement. “Right.” There was a little laugh in her voice.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, her eyes returning to his face but focusing, he noticed, on his lips. _Hello._ “Yeah. I'm used to not being seen, so a few bumps are just another day in the city.”

Peter thought that was a rather dramatic answer, but at the same time it reinforced the strange sense that he knew this woman, had even talked to her before. The shy way she pushed her hair behind her ear, the odd but interesting focus on his lips, the purse with the fraying handle hanging off of her thin shoulder. He'd seen that purse before, sometime...on Dana's couch.

“Erica!”

The name burst from his lips before his brain had even matched it to her face. As it came out, however, he knew he had it right. She laughed quietly, a light sound that he almost didn't hear over the roar of the cars. “I wondered if you remembered me, Peter.”

Peter nodded, the memories coming back quickly. “You're the space archivist at the Museum of Natural History.”

She nodded. “And you're a Ghostbuster.”

Peter puffed up a little. “Yes, I am!” 

He didn't know Erica very well. Dana often spent time with her friends, but few of them actually came to her apartment. Erica, however, was relatively new to New York City, lived down the hall, and spent very little time bothering anyone. Peter occasionally heard her practicing music in the evenings, but he had never really talked to her directly and the few times he had come home when she was visiting Dana, she had left shortly after. Now, however, he found himself wondering if she might be another layer of distraction. She knew almost nothing about him, and could talk to him, keep him focused on anything but funnel cakes and carousels. 

“Hey, are you getting into this rat race down here?” He gestured at the line of people funneling into the subway.

“Yeah. I've...got an errand on Bleecker Street before I head to work.”

_Some_ _errand._ Bleecker Street was several blocks downtown in the opposite direction of the Museum of Natural History. _Maybe she doesn't know how far it is?_ But the detour fit into the plan forming in Peter's head, so he went with it. “Wanna catch some breakfast on the way?”

Erica blinked and redness colored her pale skin. “Um...” She looked uncertain, her eyes darting around, and started to smile awkwardly again. “I really don't have time..."

“We'll eat on the way,” Peter repeated. “Come on, it'll be fun. You're still new to the city, right? What's more New York than walking to work while eating bagels and drinking coffee?”

It worked; Erica's smile shifted again. “Probably riding the subway, eating bagels, and drinking coffee.”

“We can do that too!” As far as Peter was concerned, his whole day was open. They had a few ghosts on the worksheet, but he had nothing to do at the TV studio, and Oscar was in daycare. It would have been a dark, quiet day, home alone. “C'moooonnnnn!” He stretched the word, making a silly growl out of it. _Please?_

“All right.”

_Yes!_

The two detoured away from the subway, heading to a bakery just opening its doors. The fresh scent of newly baked bread and sweet glaze permeated the air, and Peter found his mouth watering. He was suddenly ravenous, and scurried for the door, cutting off a would-be customer. He pulled the door open quickly, nearly nailing the man he had just cut off. “Ladies first!” He gestured to Erica. To his delight, Erica was smiling widely, her eyes dancing. The man gave him a poisonous glare. Peter made an exaggerated bow after Erica went into the bakery, but the man shook his head and walked away. Peter entered the bakery, feeling just a little better.

The selection was almost overwhelming to someone not from New York. Peter didn't need to look twice. He still waited for Erica to order first, and blinked as he heard her ask for a hot chocolate and a bagel with lox and schmear. It was a classically tourist thing to order, especially given the oncoming heat of the day, and yet it was oddly charming. The real surprise, however, was when she turned around and held the hot chocolate out to him. “Here.”

Peter blinked. “Why do I want this?”

“Coffee is what you drink when you want to start your day,” Erica replied. “Hot chocolate is what you drink when you want to recover from the previous night.”

Peter stared. “What, like a hangover?”

“Or anything. Insomnia. A fight. A nightmare.”

Peter felt his eyebrows drawing together without his permission. He fought to keep his expression neutral. _Damn it! How did she know?_ “Well, I don't need that,” he tried to laugh off the discomfort. “I slept great last night.” _Did I make a sound? Did she hear me?_ No, the soundproofing in the building was almost supernatural...in fact, he was pretty sure Ray had said something about Dana's new apartment also having a history of supernatural activity, but nothing near the kind of action they had seen in 1984. So in short, no, Erica couldn't have heard him.

Erica looked at him closely, closely enough that he began to wonder about the intelligence of walking with her to work. Something about her gaze made him feel like she could see right into the nightmare, see all of playing out in slow motion. He didn't like it, and stepped around her, immediately ordering a coffee and onion bagel. When he looked back, he was surprised to find Erica gone, replaced by a gaggle of people, all of whom looked like they had no idea what a bagel was and wouldn't even be able to spell the word until they got coffee. He felt a cross between disappointment and relief. He was alone again...but he also wasn't with someone who seemed like they could read his mind.

He considered sitting in the shop and eating, but the adrenaline from his conversation with Erica nullified the idea. He had to keep moving. Holding the bagel with his teeth, he threw obscene amounts of sugar into the coffee, and stirred so viciously it splashed on the counter. He threw some napkins on the spill and shoved a few more into his pocket. With a sigh, he turned and walked out of the shop, ignoring the glare of the cashier and the giggles of the children who thought the huge bagel sticking out of his mouth was the funniest thing they'd ever seen.

Peter flattened himself against the wall outside, pulling himself back together, putting the lid back on the coffee, and taking a bite of the bagel in his mouth. It was fresh and onion-y, oddly satisfying, and he felt a little smile pull at his lips. Eating was definitely improving his mood.

He glanced around, starting to look for the next place to walk, and jerked violently in surprise, his hand squeezing the bagel dangerously tight. Erica was standing almost five feet away from him, a somewhat guilty and amused smile on her face. Peter toyed with the idea of turning and walking away from her, but after a moment he realized he couldn't do it. She was still Dana's friend and he didn't want to hurt Dana by treating her friend rudely. Plus, treating her rudely would prove that she'd been right about the nightmare. And he didn't want her to know that.

So he pasted a smile on his face and took a step towards her. “Aw honey, you waited for me.”

Her smile was uncertain. _Good._ “I'm sorry, Peter. I should have known better than to offer you something so personal.”

Peter blinked. “It's hot chocolate. What's so personal about that?”

“Whether or not you had a bad night is none of my business. I just...” Erica paused, turning very red, and stared at the ground. She spoke quickly. “I can tell sometimes when people are having rough days. Body language, you know. Or acting weird. But I don't know you. You could be acting completely normal. I just felt like maybe you needed something...nice. Hot chocolate is nice.”

Peter saw an opportunity. It was a long shot. “These feelings...they're something you get often?” If he could get her off of the subject, things would be more comfortable.

Erica shrugged. “It's not so much a feeling as it is intuition. I'm good at body language. For example, I say 'nightmare' and your eyes widen a little, or you look away. It's the same kind of tricks supposed psychics use. They take a look at you, you know, you're thirty or something, they assume you have a dead grandmother, and start asking you roundabout questions and read your body and your voice for their answers.”

Peter shrugged. That was nothing new. He was well aware of how fake psychics manipulated people. “Yeah, so? You're just dangling a dead family member over my head and seeing if I'll bite?”

Erica shook her head. “I didn't say that. I'm...not trying to trick you.” She took a step back, beginning to play with the strap of her purse. Her voice grew quiet and she began to stutter. “I'm...I'm sorry. You're getting the wrong idea and I don't...know how to explain it. I'll leave you alone. Have a good day, Peter.”

Before Peter could say anything, she turned and began to walk away quickly. He stood there for a moment, completely indecisive. Once again, he had a free shot to continue his day uninterrupted, and Erica was thinking she had offended him, which meant it wasn't likely he would get in trouble with Dana later for upsetting her. 

But at the same time, he knew he could have handled the situation differently. The nightmare had put him on edge. It was deeply personal and not something he wanted to share with everyone and somehow she had, through intuition or whatever, at least figured out that he wasn't himself today. Dana held that ability over him. Even Ray did, to some extent. They could tell when Peter Venkman wasn't himself. But a complete stranger figuring it out bothered him. He shouldn't be so easy to read. It wasn't Erica's fault that she had caught him on an off day.

And, frankly, he didn't want to be responsible for making her upset.

“Erica!”

He called her name and quickly began moving through the crowd. Some who saw him coming got out of the way quickly and he began to grin a little. He didn't need to be in uniform and have a proton pack on his back for people to get out of his way. That boosted his ego a little more, and he called a second time. “Erica!”

A woman stopped walking and Peter hurried to catch up to her. Erica turned to face him as he came up and he noticed, for the first time, that under the makeup she wore she had bags under her eyes. Her lips were full and light red, as though she'd just been chewing on them, and her jaw was tense. For a moment, just one, Peter thought _my God, she's beautiful_ , and then he was talking again. “You're right.” The two of them stood there, rocks in a stream, the traffic of New York breaking and flowing around them. “You're right. I'm sorry. I had a nightmare last night. I'm not myself today.”

She smiled a little and shrugged. “You don't have to apologize. Or talk about it. Unless you want to.”

“Naw, no, no, I...I didn't need to treat you like that.” _I'm not talking about it._

She shrugged. “If you had a bad night and you aren't yourself, then it's easy to forgive. Everyone has off days and bad nights make for _really_ off days.” She popped the lid off of the hot chocolate and held it out. “Sure you don't want this?”

Peter cringed inside. _You were drinking out of it._ “I'm sure. Thanks. Really. I'll be fine with coffee.” He shook the cup and took a gulp. “Mmmmmm.” _I put way too much sugar in this._ “Now come on. We have to get you to Bleecker Street.”

The two descended into the subway and found two seats in the last car. The seats weren't together, so Peter took the one shoved into the corner, leaving Erica settled near the door. People filled up the space between them. It was far too crowded to talk, and both of them wound up eating their breakfasts, occasionally smiling at the other through the sea of legs and briefcases. Peter occasionally caught Erica laughing as she tried to look at him, and more than once he pulled a face when she was about to look away, nearly making her spit out her hot chocolate. The distraction was working; he had almost completely forgotten about the nightmare when Erica abruptly stood up and nodded to the door. Peter looked at the stop number and frowned. This wasn't the stop for Bleecker Street. But there went Erica out the door and Peter was on his feet, shoving his way out after her. He didn't catch up with her until she was on the street, striding purposefully down St. Mark's. “Hey! This isn't Bleecker Street." _Where_ _’s she going, really? This whole thing hasn't seemed right._

“I know,” Erica answered. “It was....too close in the subway there. Too many people.”

Peter scoffed. “It's New York.”

Erica frowned. “That doesn't mean I'm used to it. Why do you think I work in archives?” Her voice was suddenly thinner, tighter.

Peter tilted his head. “Not a people person, huh?” _What's happening?_

Erica stared at him for a few moments, something like frustration and guilt crossing her face, then kept walking. Intrigued, Peter nodded to himself and followed. “So you're walking the last few...dozen...blocks?” Even as he asked the question, however, his mind pieced together where they were. “You know, I've got a friend that owns a bookshop around here. You work in archival stuff, that means you're into books and history, right? Let's stop by and say hello.”

Erica didn't respond. She increased her walking speed. Peter narrowed his eyes and picked up his speed too, keeping up with her. He started to take in a breath, about to ask her why she was clamming up when she'd been nearly spitting hot chocolate out of her nose not five minutes before. 

And suddenly she stopped walking.

Peter almost ran into her, planting his foot and spinning away at the last second. As his eyes refocused on the scene before him, he felt his lips slowly begin to pull into a huge smile.

Erica was rummaging in her purse, muttering something about looking for a shopping list. But her gaze was fixed across the street on the man opening the front door of Ray's Occult Books. As Peter watched, Ray unlocked the door and walked in, flipping a switch. The lights came on in the bookshop, and Ray moved out of sight towards the back. He gave no indication he'd seen either of them.

Peter, aware that by now his grin was way too big to hide, turned his gaze to Erica, who was staring silently at the door. She looked away when it was obvious Ray wasn't coming back – and she saw the look on Peter's face. Her eyes widened. “ _No._ ”

Peter's grin got even bigger. “Come on, I'll introduce you!” _This day just got_ so _much better._

Erica shook her head violently and closed her purse. “No!”

“Whaddaya mean, “no”? We're not in high school, come _on_! You're two consenting adults!”

“Leave me alone!” Her voice was higher, nervous. She immediately started walking back towards the subway, her strides long, and her speed picking up with each step.

Peter had no trouble keeping up with her. _Ray hasn't had a date in...ever. He needs this!_ “You're _exactly_ his type. You're both into books and he thinks you're pretty.” He put on his most convincing face. Erica blinked, the blush spreading into her face again. A little smile started to pull at her lips. _I've got her!_ “Come on,” he pushed. “Let's go back. You can be five minutes late. I bet you've never been late for anything in your life. You're a pretty, shy girl, I bet the boss'll let you be five minutes late because you were getting a date.”

Erica slowed, then turned her head and fixed him with a Look. Peter felt his confidence waver.

“I've never met Doctor Stantz,” she said softly. “He's never seen me before. There's no way he could think I'm pretty. So stop putting me on.

She was right, as far as Peter knew, and he didn't want to lie to her. He could. He knew he could. His mind even knew what to say. But he wasn't going to alienate her just for his own amusement. So he backpedaled. “Fine. No. He doesn't know you. But you're his type, I'm tellin' you. I know he's single. I'm not even sure he's had a date since at least college. How about we just go in for a moment? I won't say anything, scout's honor.”

Erica turned and looked back at the bookshop. Her face colored again, and she shook her head. “Not today. Not now. Maybe later, okay? Maybe. I really need to get to work now.”

Peter was fine with that arrangement. “Want me to call you a taxi? You still need to get to Bleecker Street, right?"

Erica shook her head. “No, I...I do like walking. It's faster than anything in New York City. And no. I don't have time to go to Bleecker Street anymore. I'll do it later.”

“Did you ever actually have to go?” Peter asked, his voice teasing, his eyebrows wagging at her. He couldn't help it – it seemed a little too convenient that she was now out of time after having stood and watched Ray for a few moments.

Erica didn’t respond verbally. She just turned away from him and began to walk back towards the subway. Peter considered calling after her, pointing out that she hadn't answered his question, but he knew he was treading on thin ice at this point. There was only so far you could push someone, and he could tell he'd reached probably the end of this topic. He hurried to catch up with her, mulling over her somewhat whiplash moods.

The rest of the their time together passed in relative silence. Peter tried a few times to strike up a conversation with Erica, gathering information he could tell Ray. She'd moved from Eugene, Oregon, seven months ago, loved history, space, and blues music, lived alone, played the harmonica, and spent most of her free time at the New York Public Library. Finally, he tried to convince her to come on his show based on her intuitions. She seemed to be vaguely interested but Peter couldn't get a straight yes or no out of her. Peter eventually went back to eating his onion bagel and drinking his way-too-sweet coffee, deciding that while the distraction had been a success, he was left just as unsettled as he had been when he'd started.

She thanked him coolly for the company as he dropped her off outside the Museum of Natural History. Peter stared at her for a few moments, trying to figure out exactly where he'd went wrong and how to apologize for it. He settled for a blanket apology, and added that he was glad she'd forgiven him for being so off that day. He knew the words were a little loaded but was still surprised when her cool face warmed into a light smile. Bolstered by the response, he added, scout's honor, that he wouldn't tell Ray about her interest in him. She nodded acceptingly and turned away.

Peter Venkman, however, had never been a Boy Scout.


	2. The Bookshop Attack

Raymond Stantz had already decided that today was going to be a good day.

The sweet, musty scent of the bookshop wrapped around him lovingly as he stepped in and shut the door. He enjoyed going through his opening duties alone, feeling the presence of all the knowledge around him. Janine normally showed up close to ten-thirty, smelling like coffee and cigarettes. It was a delicious combination on her, though Ray would never admit aloud to thinking that. It also overrode the soft, natural smell of the bookshop itself, and so he breathed deeply and slowly, savoring what he could get now.

He hustled around the shop, straightening books on shelves, making sure some of the talismans on the counter hung just so, and checked his lighting. Some of the bulbs had been flickering for the past few days, something he and Egon had concluded came from wiring issues and not ghosts sneaking around the place. He chuckled to himself, wondering if he could hire the Ghostbusters to clean up his own shop. Wouldn't that be a laugh? How would the payments work? Could he use the haunting to drum up business, perhaps? He played through several scenarios in his head as he counted his bank and checked the paper roll in the cash register. Each scenario became a little more enthusiastic and grandstanding than the last, and he finally had to stop and shake his head, chuckling at the creativity of the human imagination. Moving to the back of the shop, he took a look at the incense burners and selection, and shook his head for the fourth day in a row. Nothing held a candle, pardon the pun, to the smell of old books. When you walked into Ray's Occult Books, you knew the kind of place it was immediately, and ideally it was a place you wanted to be in. He loved that about his shop.

He took one more moment to look around, a small, satisfied smile on his face. There truly was so much in this little corner of New York City. The secrets practically hummed in the pages of the books, creating their own little supernatural winds that whistled around and played with his hair and the sheer curtains that fluttered over the doorway to the backroom. The theories and facts presented in each tome opened up more than new worlds. There were innerspaces and vast galaxies and different levels of dimension and time. He knew he couldn't read everything in the bookshop within his lifetime, and he certainly couldn’t remember it all, but it still made him sigh in awe at the sheer power contained here in his shop.

His mismatched eyes (one brown, one green, a mutation he'd come to love despite being mocked for it in primary school) alighted on a dark corner of the bookshop, and a small furrow crossed his brow. He moved over to the corner, putting off balancing his books for another ten minutes. No one was even walking on St. Mark's street yet. He wouldn't have customers until possibly after the lunch hour, and Janine would arrive in about ten minutes. That gave him time to look at the strange book sitting in the corner.

Ray hadn't been as thorough with the dusting of this corner as he should have been. He picked the small book up and lightly blew the dust off of it, taking a moment to notice the swirls that appeared in the air as the particles met the daylight filtering through the windows. A small smile curled his lips as he returned his attention to the leather-bound tome in his hands. It was finely made, only four by six inches, the leather showing only a bit of wear and the edges of the pages mildly stiff with age. There were a few pages missing from the back of the book, torn out who knew when, but otherwise it was in beautiful condition. When his deft fingers unwound the strap and drew open the book, the sweet smell of the hoof glue binding the pages filled the air. As they always did once the book was open, Ray's eyes focused on the ink swirling across the pages.

And like so many other times he had opened this book, his eyes could make no sense of what they saw.

The book was a bit of a legend. Supposedly a hundred years ago, it had been a readable book, perhaps something as simple as the ledger of a general store, or as intriguing as a book of codes by Civil War soldiers. For reasons unknown, it had been wrapped in leather and thrown into a fire with a bunch of other discarded items. When the embers had finally cooled, the book had been sitting on the ash, its protective wrap burnt to a crisp, but the cover and pages untouched. Inside the book, the ink on the pages had gone from coherent words to meaningless swirls, locking away any knowledge and secrets the book may have had. The story was that anyone who could decipher the book would be not only forever protected from fire, but have control over the flames as well.

Ray had been exhilarated to receive the book in a shipment one day. It had come with a note, the owner saying he was throwing it in for free because he simply did not want it anymore. Ray had thought that reasoning a bit strange, given the legend of the book, but he had not questioned the owner. Instead, he'd placed the book on his shelves for a few months, inviting people to read it, saying they could have it for free if they could decipher it. Many had tried. Some had lied, saying they could read it, but when pushed they folded, and Ray sent them away with disapproval. He and Egon had spent many nights trying to decipher the book themselves, comparing writing samples throughout history. Nothing had come up a match. The only clue they had was the English writing on the front of the book, a line that stated: “You have a job to do.” It didn't seem like a funny saying on the front of a notebook, meant to inspire the user every time they looked at it. It felt like a command to Ray, an order that he, try as he could, simply could not follow.

So, eventually, he had taken the book from its lighted display in his front counter, and tucked it into a corner of his shop. He had started to understand why the other owner gave it up. It brought little other than frustration. But understanding did not mean sharing the compulsion. Ray was a Ghostbuster, and a student of parapsychology and xenoarchaeology. This kind of mystery was precisely what he loved and what he lived for.

The quiet jingle of the door brought his eyes up. Janine came striding in, that sensual scent following her around. She flipped the sign to “Open”, as it was ten-thirty, and fixed her bright eyes on him, the overly-reddened bob swinging purposefully around her face. “Good morning, Doctor Stantz.”

“ _Ray_!” Ray quickly amended. “Remember? Egon, Ray, Winston, and Doctor Venkman, since Peter's going to be uptight about that.” He flashed her a winning smile and he saw the edges of her lips start to pull up in response. _Great!_ Janine had a beautiful smile and a sense of humor drier than Antarctica, (the world's biggest desert, by definition). She was inscrutable, too. He could never completely tell if she was loving every second of her life and just being a Vulcan about it, or if she truly was unhappy at something. There weren't many people Raymond Stantz had trouble reading, but admittedly, she was one of them.

“So, ah....let's see, we were putting together an order for incense yesterday. Shall we go back to that?” Ray put the book down, reluctantly letting go of it and turning to face the real world of work before him.

“I'd rather do my sneezing after lunch,” Janine replied. “How about we open the new shipments? It'll be like Christmas morning.” A little spark in her eye belied her customary flat tone. 

Ray agreed eagerly. He loved seeing what new wonders had crossed the threshold of his shop. “All right. Let's see what Santa brought us!”

~*~

Peter all but strutted down St. Mark's, a mischievous smile on his lips and an impish twinkle in his eye. He had the whole day planned out. A quick stop by Ray's to drop off the bomb of a hot girl being interested in him, and a slow stroll through The Pet Shack before continuing on to Ghostbusters Headquarters and the day's business. 

Peter had taken to stopping by The Pet Shack to say hi to the cats up for adoption whenever they came around, even though it meant taking verbal abuse from a grumpy but smart old parrot. Kevin, the store owner, had been trying for months to rid himself of the bird, which had taken to devoting its life to two tasks: opening cages and picking up many of New York's favorite insults. It never hesitated to hurl them at Peter or anyone else who got too close. Peter had learned to ignore the barrage when he went in, letting the fluffy innocence of the cats take over. He wasn't planning on ever picking one up: he and Dana had enough with Oscar. But there was something incredibly soothing about the jeweled eyes and soft meows, something that helped Peter put things into perspective. He was a little addicted, he supposed.

He had a lot to think about lately, anyway. Between Dana, Oscar, and the nightmares that hadn't stopped for days, he felt pulled in all directions and wanted nothing more than to hide from the world, which was one thing he couldn't do. Also, the ghosts these days were picking up a sense of humor. There had been a class-four full-torso apparition pretending to be various people in the Museum of Natural History, and a silly little class-five full-roaming vapor that had set up shop in Ripley's Believe It or Not! Today was pretty much nothing but a free repeater at, of all places, the New York Police Department. Peter was not looking forward to that one; he hated the looks they always got. Plus he was convinced Ray had broken a couple of speed limits and parking rules and he was never sure when the police were going to come down on them for it.

The ghosts had gotten a little stranger too. Peter had started to notice that proton beams didn't have the same effect on all of them. Some of them got out of the beam while Egon was setting the trap. Some ignored it altogether. He knew Egon and Ray had started working on new ways to trap ghosts to keep up with the changing times and the demand, but he couldn't help but wonder why the ghosts seemed to be getting both smarter and stronger. It was something he figured he would bring up the next time he saw Ray...which would be in about two minutes.

The rumble of a truck started up behind him as he neared the bookshop. He didn't quite remember seeing a truck as he walked down the avenue, and he turned to glance at it, just to make sure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. 

It wasn't. There was a truck with a large trailer easing slowly down the road. Tied onto the trailer was a large wagon, the design of which Peter immediately recognized. His heart leaped into his throat and he stopped moving, staring.

The wagon was beautiful, antique, almost breathtaking in its simplicity. It might have been a gypsy wagon in another life, boxy but with round corners, painted a deep red that had dulled with age. Its Bohemian design was accentuated by small, intricate swirlings and purple trim. A door sat in the middle of one of the sides, a curtain blocking the window. Four large, gold, spoked wheels held the wagon up off of the trailer. More colorful curtains fell from the faded, purple rooftop, fluttering seductively, glimpses of the words: “Fortune Teller” brushed in bright gold peeking through the fabric. But Peter couldn't really focus on them. He was in the past, standing on the wet ground, smelling the oil of the funnel cakes, and hearing the other barkers around him howling their duties, be it for candy or games or a desire to see the death defying stunts taking place every hour, on the hour. And he heard the panicked whinnying of a horse driven mad...

He turned away, trying to shake off the memory, and the sense of familiarity _(have I seen that wagon before?)_ , and noticed something odd in the window of Ray's Occult Books. _Does he have a fan going in there?_ It looked like pieces of paper were flying around. He picked up the pace to peer in the window, and his eyes widened. _What the...?!_

Janine was in the air, flying from side to side, mouth open in a scream that wasn't making it past the glass windows. The shop around her was already almost eighty percent destroyed. Adrenaline pounding through his veins, Peter shoved open the door and leaped in, pushing it firmly shut behind him. 

Janine was grabbing frantically at the walls, the shelves, anything, it seemed, to stop her from being thrown to the other side. Her skirt kept flipping up too high to be appropriate and her screams blended with the unearthly roar filling the room. Under the cacophony of flicking paper, thudding books, and tinkling crystal, Peter heard Ray shouting something unintelligible. _Please don't let him be possessed..._

“Peter! Get the trap!”

_Not possessed._ Ray's head poked out from the back room, his hair sticking up every which way, his shirt pressed firmly to his body from the pressure. Peter could feel it too; his ears wanted to pop. 

“The trap!” Ray was pointing frantically at the front counter. “Get it!” He went back to shouting something Peter couldn't understand, and Janine's gyrations in the air slowed. Whatever he was saying was having an effect, but Peter knew it wasn't half as much as it should be. He ducked his head and dove for the trap, rolling on the ground a bit like a Special Forces soldier, coming up right next to the counter. He started to grin as he looked to see if anyone had seen his little move, but from the looks of it, it was going to have to be a story he told later over beer.

He got a hold of the trap, pulling it out and then pushing it firmly into the center of the shop below Janine. “Janine, shut your eyes!” he yelled as loud as he could, and then, hoping she'd heard him, activated the trap.

The trap hissed and the thing in the air howled, reaching almost a fever pitch. Janine screamed again, in fear or pain, Peter couldn't tell, and the swoosh of the trap took over all noise. A loud thump shook the floor, and then the louder sound of silence filled the air.

Peter opened his eyes.

Janine was scrambling to get up. The trap sat on the floor, peaceful, serene...and empty. There was no flashing light, no electric aftersurge. The trap was silent, and held absolutely nothing within.

_Oh God, where did the ghost go?_

“Did you get it?” Ray asked, coming quickly out of the back room. Peter stood up slowly, staring at the trap even as he moved to offer his hand to the incensed Janine. She ignored him. Ray quickly began to brush her off and she slapped his hands away, her face red with the indignities of the past few minutes. 

Ray's face fell as he saw the trap. “Oh no. Where did it go?”

“I don't know,” Peter confessed. “I sent the trap in, activated it. We all heard it. It pulled something in. It wouldn't have closed otherwise, right?”

“Well no...” Ray rubbed the back of his neck. “It'll close if there's nothing to bring in.”

“Well _something_ was throwing our secretary around like a basketball!” Peter snapped.

“Yes, and _something_ wasn't affected by the trap. At all.” Ray's eyes were locked on the trap, his expression growing more worried by the moment. 

“Have you noticed, Ray,” Peter began, starting to pick up a book or two that had hit the floor, “that the ghosts seem to be evading our little trap more often than not these days?” Three books later he realized he just had no idea where to put any of them, and let them all fall to the floor again.

“Well it makes sense,” Ray replied. “We've been in business for...about a year and a half, once you add in everything. Ghosts and spectres aren't always brainless creatures. Some of them are intelligent. They're all mostly comprised of the same molecular compounds, and we made these proton packs and traps on nothing but the theories of what those compounds are. If ghosts can adapt to our technology or learn about the weaknesses in our tools...weaknesses we might not even know about yet...then yes. It's completely possible they can learn to avoid us entirely.”

Peter leaned somewhat casually against the desk, his flashing eyes betraying his irritation. “And this is something we can't stop? Is it something we knew about?”

“It's a logical progression of our work. I just figured we'd deal with it when the time came.”

Peter blinked wildly. “ _When the time came??_ ” He gestured to the lopsided antique clock hanging precariously over Ray's front counter. “I'd say the time was about five minutes ago!”

Ray looked up, spotted the clock, and moved quickly to grab it and guide it gently to the countertop. “I'll talk to Spengler.”

“In the meantime,” Janine interjected, her accent even thicker now with anger, “I'm getting hazard pay for not only being thrown around, but for the lack of compassion shown by my employers!”

Peter shrugged. “You're up, you're walking, and you're asking for money. You're fine.”

Ray glared at him, then softened his gaze. “Are you all right, Janine?”

“Yes, I'm fine, Doctor Stantz,” Janine bit off the words. “Thank you for asking.” She reached down and picked up the 'CLOSED' sign from under a pile of books. “Should I go put this up?”

Ray looked around at the mess of his shop. A dull look of shock began to take over his face. “Yes.”

Janine grabbed a marker from the desk and headed for the door. Peter closed the distance between him and Ray, aware that he needed to keep his friend talking as much as he needed information. Any moment, it was going to hit Ray that his business was destroyed. “So what was that you were saying when I walked in? When you weren't yelling about getting the trap?”

Ray grinned a little. “It's a little trick Spengler and I adapted from something we found in Spates' Catalog. It's an incantation that keeps a ghost from leaving an area, you know, in case our proton packs aren't working. Unfortunately, as you saw, I couldn't stop it from hurting Janine.” His face fell. “I need to work on it.”

“It wasn't your fault.” The words were almost automatic, but Peter had seen that look on his friend's face before. The 'if only I had done better' look. Ray was a dreamer. He was naive, and kind, and would be completely under the thrall of anyone who tried to take advantage of him. Egon wasn't quite as innocent as Ray was, but he was just as prone to being taken advantage of. Peter often thought it was up to him, as the oldest and wisest of the group, to keep Egon and Ray from wandering off the path to look at the pretty flowers. The pretty flowers would chew them up. “Where did today's little surprise come from, anyway?”

“I don't know!” Ray looked towards the back of the shop. “We had just opened a new shipment, maybe one of the books was cursed or something...”

“This was pinned on the window outside,” Janine's voice broke into the conversation, and her slim hand thrust a piece of paper between the two men. “It might have been glued, but it came off just fine. I thought you'd want to see it.”

Peter looked down at the colorful swirls and comic print. His stomach curled into a tiny ball, even as Ray's eyes widened and he gasped in glee. He snatched the paper from Janine's hand. “A carnival! Here in the city! What a fantastic opportunity!” He looked at Peter, mouth half-open in excitement. “I've got to talk to Spengler! A carnival! I don't remember the last time I've been to one! And we've been dying to try out some of our new gadgets. Carnivals are famous for having ghosts. And funnel cakes, of course!” He headed for the door. “I'll be right back!”

Silence followed Ray's exit. Peter stood there, a mess of emotions. He was happy for Ray's enthusiasm and for the distraction from the shop. He was sick inside from the nightmare and the fact that carnivals seemed to be following him around today. He felt fear gnawing its way into his chest and stomach. _They can't go to that place_ , his mind whimpered. _They won't come out._

_You're being ridiculous_ , another part of his brain argued. _It was a dream. It was an accident. You saw accidents. You knew they happened. It's part of the business. Part of the job. Not every carnival is going to be the one where Mom and Dad...._

“Doctor Venkman?” Janine was touching his arm, her eyes wide and filled with more compassion than Peter thought he had ever seen from her. “Are you all right?”

Peter realized he had been staring, the look of mute horror on his face, and he cleared his throat and ran his hand through his hair. “ _Ahem_. Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right.”

“So, you don't like carnivals.” Classic Janine, asking a question without asking a question.

Peter looked her in the eye. “Clowns scare me.”

He knew she didn't believe him, but it didn't matter. He turned and walked out of the shop, noticing that the 'CLOSED' sign Janine had put up had additional words beneath it written in her unmistakable scrawl. 

They read: “due to haunting.”


	3. The Dinner

Night often came early to New York City, even in the middle of summer. The towering, close-knit buildings provided their own climate once the sun sank below the rooftops, crashing the temperatures in minutes. The Financial District could be in early evening at three in the afternoon, and by six the neon signs of Times Square were overtaking any natural light still leaking through the streets. The smell of restaurants cooking up their dinners vied with the metallic tang of cars and the thicker scents of warm concrete and steel. The trees of Central Park, so close to the roads, couldn't quite overcome the sounds of footsteps and impatient horns as commuters struggled to reach home before dinner...or the news...was on. So it was a loud and fragrant world that Erica Crane stepped into when she exited the Museum of Natural History. After an appreciative glance at the huge building that provided her with enough income to live in this massive city, she headed east on 59th St, circling Central Park. She smiled at the trees and rolled her shoulders, shaking off the pressure of the day's work, and trying to forget the truly awkward start she'd had this morning. If she was lucky, she'd make it back to her apartment before Peter got back to his. The thought sped her up.

She hurried into the high-rise apartment building and threw a smile to Frank, the super, who was lounging behind his desk. She paused by her mailbox, checking to see if there was anything other than flyers lodged in there. No dice. She was expecting a letter from her great-aunt Muriel any day now. Muriel was a New Ager, pretty much ignored by most of the Catholic-raised family, but Erica had always been fascinated by her perspectives on everything, from God to life to the Golden Rule. The two had been in touch for pretty much Erica's entire life, and over time Erica had developed the feeling she was the only member of the family Muriel spoke to. _Maybe there's a phone message upstairs._ She headed up, digging out her key.

As she rode in the elevator to her floor, her mind wandered to the reason the morning had been so awkward. She knew Peter Venkman. He was Dana Barrett's boyfriend, and Dana had been Erica's first friend in New York City. She knew Peter was the leader of a group of men called the Ghostbusters. And she knew that Peter was manic, excitable, full of energy, almost a personification of New York City. She hadn't really known he could be kind or charming. And she definitely hadn't known that he could be afraid. That was what he had been this morning: afraid. He'd kept that smile on his face and that light in his eyes but every other aspect of him had been tense, worried. He'd looked around as though something was about to attack them, and he'd gotten so defensive when she asked him about the previous night. She knew it was personal, but to see such a change in him had worried her. She'd wanted to help.

She had a feeling she hadn't. Instead, she'd made herself vulnerable, taking him along to Ray's bookshop. Ray. One of the Ghostbusters, and a man whose smile she had seen on TV on New Year's Eve...and in her dreams every week since. She went by his bookshop a couple times a week, convinced that maybe she could pass him her number on a receipt. And every time she saw him, her mind went blank, her mouth went dry, and her body glued itself to the ground.

And now Peter knew about it...

“Watch out!”

The voice broke through Erica's thoughts, bringing her back to the pale hallway and the chilly, air-conditioned interior of her apartment building on East 77th St.

“You were daydreaming.”

Erica blinked and looked up, finally realizing she'd been staring at the ground as she walked. Dana was inches away from her, struggling to open her door while carrying two large grocery bags. Erica reached out immediately to help relieve the woman of one of her burdens. “I'm sorry! Thanks for waking me up!”

“It's all right.” Free of one bag, Dana easily opened her door. “Who were you thinking about?”

Erica could feel the blush crawling into her face and she hid behind the bag, following Dana into the apartment. “Oh um...no one. Uh, nothing!”

Dana opened her refrigerator, throwing a quick glance inside as though making sure there was nothing in there other than food. It was a habit Erica suspected would never go away. “Uh-huh. And what's No-One's name?”

Well there was no way Erica was going to confess _that._ “I don't know,” she lied. “Just some guy I've seen around the city.”

Dana smiled. “Well, the next time you see him, try asking for his name so I know who to charge for my loss of groceries.” Her eyes sparkled a little and Erica chuckled. Dana had definitely gotten a little sillier in the last few months and given what she'd seen of Peter this morning, Erica was pretty sure she knew why.

“Sure, I'll ask his name after a few shots of tequila. Or something.” She chuckled again, this time nervously. _I'd never be able to talk to him to a bar. And forget dinner! Crowded restaurant, so many people, too loud to hear...or private and too soft to hide conversation...not a chance._

Dana shoved the eggs into the refrigerator. “How is the exhibition coming along?”

New subject. _Thank you._ Erica eagerly sat on the couch. “We open in two weeks! I'm so excited! I thought the Rose Center would do an exhibition of the first images from Hubble, since they focus so much on the science of space, but with the flaw in the Telescope, we're probably not going to get a lot of really clear images yet so...anyway, the exhibition's got information on Mercury, Gemini, Apollo...oh, but did you know the Russians have had men in space for a year on Mir? It's the current record! Vladimir Titov and Musa Manarov, 1987 to 1988.” She stopped to take a breath and noticed Dana's slightly blank, teasing smile. “Sorry.”

“Don't be. It's great to be around someone who's so passionate about their work.” Dana disappeared into the fridge, trying to make room for a carton of milk. “Oh, Erica, by the way...I'm meeting Peter and the others for pizza later on tonight. Would you like to come along?”

_Peter...and the others? Was she reading my mind?_ “You mean the Ghostbusters?”

“Yes.” Dana's voice sounded unsure, and after a moment she added: “They're not movie stars, you know. Just a bunch of guys who happened to save the town a couple of times....” She trailed off, her expression changing. “All right, I can see why you're hesitating. But really, they're ordinary people. Winston teaches karate, Egon spends most of his time at Columbia University running experiments, Peter has that ridiculous television show, and Ray's got his bookshop. They're just trying to live like all of us. Plus, I think you and Ray would get along. You're both unbelievably enthusiastic about what you do and I know he's interested in just about anything to do with science and history.” 

Erica's breath caught and she felt the ridiculous smile beginning to spread across her face. _Hide it! Star-struck! Act star-struck!_ “It's...not that they're famous,” she said, an awkward laugh in her throat. She didn't trust herself to meet Dana's gaze. “It's just...” _I met Peter this morning and he found out...because I was a stupid idiot and couldn't tell him to leave me alone. If only I was braver!_ She began to twist her hands together, though unaware she was doing it. “...I'm not comfortable with large groups of people.” It was a true statement, even if it wasn't the only reason she was hesitant about going. The unspoken social pressure of a group larger than two usually had her silent and staring the whole time, which tended to be off-putting to most.

“You moved to New York City,” Dana answered.

Erica felt a sting of frustration. She was never quite sure what to do with that type of response. The unspoken part of it was 'well you put yourself in this position' or 'why are you here if you don't like it'? Peter had asked her the same question this morning and she had snapped at him.

“I did,” she replied, her slight anger giving her a small boost of confidence. “My job was here. Which means I had to move here. Which means...I...should...probably come to dinner with you and the guys so I'm not 'that eccentric workaholic down the hall.'” That was a fair enough way of answering, accepting the invitation while defending herself a little bit.

Dana smiled. “If you decide to come, be back here in forty-five minutes. Oh, and if Mr. No-Name is with us, wear a little eyeliner.”

Erica's mouth dropped open. Dana's smile was positively wicked now. _I'm just as transparent as everyone else, aren't I?_ “Um...I...I'll...see you in forty-five minutes.”

~*~

“C'mon guys, if we don't go now, we're gonna show up smelling like old, dusty bookshop! No woman likes the smell of old, dusty bookshop!”

“On the contrary, Peter, I've found that women are more attracted to older or more faded scents. It activates their curiosity, which in turn activates their interest.”

“Huh. No wonder Old Spice works so well.”

“Well you guys can go if you want, but if I'm going to open back up in a couple days, I can't stop for dinner. Someone bring me back a slice.”

“Will anyone please tell me where I can set down this thing? It weighs more than our car!”

“Winston, put that back where you found it. If anything is moved or damaged further, Raymond's insurance claim may be denied.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Oof! And by the way, it's not the smell of old, dusty bookshop. We've got something like fifteen different incenses scattered around here. We're going to make people sneeze for hours no matter where we go!”

The Ghostbusters bustled around the shop, navigating carefully through the mess caused by the excitement of the morning. The front door of the shop was open, fans lining it, trying to remove the lingering odors of patchouli, sandalwood, cedar, and rose. The 'due to haunting' addendum to the “CLOSED” sign had been hastily crossed out. Now, a messy, bright scrawl spelled out: “The Ghostbusters were here”. The lights shone down on the four men, three of which were on their feet, inspecting broken shelves and glass. The fourth man was lazily sprawled on the floor, thumbing through a copy of True Predictions by Carnival Fortune Tellers.

Ray's camera shutter clicked repeatedly, documenting the damage to his beloved shop. He'd spent most of the day on the phone, using all his wiles as a New Yorker and a Ghostbuster to get the insurance adjuster to come out and assess the damage as soon as possible. The best he'd gotten was 'eh, sometime in the next couple days'. Peter considered going down and giving the man a piece of his mind, but Ray, exhausted from the fight, had simply shaken his head and accepted the response, hanging up and pulling out the camera and a notepad, scribbling down as much information as he could. Egon and Winston had jumped in, eagerly wanting to help their friend. Peter had withdrawn after the first couple of hours, his desire to help no smaller but his brain simply too bored with the task to continue.

“Raymond, I believe you're going to have to replace your crystal collection as well.” Egon held up a number of glittering shards. 

Ray groaned and waved at him. “Put those down so I don't have to add additional human injury to this list.” He paused to rub his eyes. “Just a couple of days and I'll be open again....”

“ _Additional_ human injury?” Winston asked. 

“Janine,” Ray sighed. Egon's head jerked up, his eyes focused intensely on Ray. Peter couldn't establish the emotion behind them, but Egon didn't blink as Ray continued. “She's all right, she just has a couple of bruises.” He pressed his hand to his forehead. “I'm so glad she isn't suing us.”

“She wouldn't sue us.” _I hope._ Peter tried to brush off the worry he felt building in the room and in his chest. “Janine knows the kind of work we do. Really, we're lucky the ghost picked her instead of some random person.” Janine had been through a lot with them, surely she wouldn't pull some kind of move. Ghostbusting wasn't the richest career path and being sued would probably ruin them this early in their reestablishment. He didn't think their redheaded secretary would turn on them like that. Especially not with her history with Egon...

“She's all right.” It wasn't a question...or at least, not an obvious one....coming from Egon. But it was clear he needed a reply. 

“Yeah, I mean, I don't think she's coming to work for a couple of days, but yeah, thank goodness,” Ray answered.

Egon stared for another few seconds and then his shoulders relaxed just a little. He turned back to work, his face impassive. Peter made a mental note to ask him exactly what had happened that caused him and Janine to split, just in case it came up in court later. If she sued them. Damn it, now he couldn't stop worrying about it...

“Ray!” he called. “Admit it! Whatever that ghost was, it's got you going in circles for a few days! Let's go and get something to eat. Besides, I told Dana we'd meet her at seven!”

“Seven!” Winston whirled on him. “You never mentioned a time before. Where are we going?”

“Jake's!” Peter grinned.

“That's below Bleecker Street!” Winston groaned. “It's twenty minutes from here if we left now. There's no time to go and change!”

“Like I said, if we leave now, maybe we won't smell as bad!”

Winston threw a book at Peter, who ducked it expertly.

“Okay, okay!” Ray yelled. “Let's go before Peter destroys the shop all over again! Winston, put that book back!”

Peter bolted for the front door, taking in large gulps of the warm, salty, metallic-tasting city air, looking down St. Mark's at the subway station. Behind him, the other three came out, holding various bags. Ray switched off the lights and closed the door, locking it securely, and pulling the metallic grate across the storefront. The four started walking.

“Raymond, at last count, you've lost a hundred percent of your incense and crystal collection, forty percent of your tapestries, suffered extensive damage to sixty percent of your shelving...”

“Egie, I can't right now...” Peter looked back to see Ray, his face twisted in worry, walking shakily with his eyes aiming at the ground. The shock was setting in. _Maybe he'll start realizing he's not going to open up any time soon._ It was getting hard to listen to his frantic, desperate self-consolations.

Egon immediately stopped talking, and tucked his notebook away. His expression was blank but he took a step closer to Ray, offering him comfort in his own subtle way. Peter smiled a little and faced front again, striding confidently towards the subway and the promise of _food_.

~*~

Erica was almost instantly overwhelmed as she slid nervously onto the cracked plastic of the booth. Even though it was a Monday night, Jake's was still nearly packed to bursting, with Phil Collins blasting over the radio and conversation filling the spaces between songs. The bright lights shimmered down on the neon clothes and big hairstyles, and air conditioning chilled the room to a gooseflesh-raising temperature. Erica shot a look at the Hall of Fame on the wall, showing pictures taken of celebrities that had come through for a slice. Not surprisingly, the Ghostbusters were on there, and she had to bite her lip and look away. _It's not that they're famous_ , she'd said earlier. But really, they kind of were. And of all the people she could have met when moving to New York City, she'd met the girlfriend of one. _Regardless of how you feel about Ray, you're still star-struck by the Ghostbusters. Even after this morning. Didn't Peter annoy you enough to get over that?_

_Apparently not._

Dana seemed perfectly at ease. She'd chosen a large booth in the back corner and given Erica the seat closest to the window, facing the door. Erica was silently thankful; she was able to see the comings and goings of people and she had silence on one side and behind her. _If I get overwhelmed, I can just look out the window._ She looked at the empty seat next to her and her heart rate picked up at the sudden thought of who might sit there. She grabbed a menu and opened it, trying to pick something out so she could look cool and collected when the time came to order.

A few seconds later she put the menu down to see Dana smirking gently at her. Jake's was remarkably simple: single slice or pie with toppings. “Can you tell I've never been here before?” she asked.

“Just relax,” Dana smiled. “If it's too loud in here I'm sure the guys won't mind walking somewhere else.”

Erica flinched. There was no way she was going to make everyone change their plans just because the assault of noise and lights were one good flash-bang away from giving her a panic attack. _You're in New York now. Handle it!_ “I think I'll just go to the bathroom. Stewart's Cream Soda if the guy comes back, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Groovy.” Erica nearly bolted for the bathroom.

Bathrooms were a strange oasis in any restaurant. Anyone who came in was pretty much in there for one good reason, and consequently there tended to be a level of isolation and quiet respect given from person to person. The bathroom at Jake's fit the profile: neutrally-colored, faintly smelling of potpourri, and cut off from the music and conversations filling the busy restaurant. After the door shut, Erica took a moment to shiver off the noise from outside and look closely at herself in the mirror.

As usual, her eyebrows were too thick, her mouth was too wide, and her dark brown hair lay straight and flat on her head, which just made her chin stick out more. She'd taken Dana's advice and figured on a little makeup, a brush on the cheeks and dab on the lips. But the one feature she'd made stand out was obviously not having its best day. She could see the bags under her eyes and began regretting her choice of eyeliner and mascara. _How did I forget to pluck my eyebrows?_ Her pale skin seemed exceptionally white under the bathroom light, and she groaned, glaring at herself. _Today is not my day for meeting new people._

_All right. New people. New friends, maybe. Maybe. Just be yourself. Or don't. Don't be yourself, be someone they'd like._ _Someone he'd like. Someone who will make him smile like that._

She swallowed and eyed the dark blue scoop-neck blouse she wore over white leggings. _White. Why did I wear white leggings to a pizza place? Nice move, McFly._ She frantically ran her hands through her hair, trying to shake it up and give it a little more bed-ruffled look. Within a few seconds she was pulling her fingers through it, straightening it and flattening it all over again. _Okay. Enough!_

She wobbled out of the bathroom. Her eyes swept the booths in the restaurant and her heart stopped. Where was Dana? She couldn't see the woman anymore. _Wait, where were we sitting?_

An arm swinging through the air caught her eye and she looked at the booth in the corner. It was full – or almost full – and she recognized the people sitting there. _Oh..._

The Ghostbusters had shown up while she was in the bathroom. Peter was swinging his arm around Dana's shoulders, and Winston was settled peacefully next to them. Egon and Ray were sitting on Erica's side of the table and had their heads together, clearly looking at something. Erica stood there for a moment, watching, well aware that she could just bounce. Egon and Ray wouldn't recognize her and Dana had her back to the entrance. She didn't have to do this tonight. Sinead O'Connor was playing over the speakers now. _I'm on stage for the whole world to see. I've got to go. I can't do this right now._

And then it was too late.

“ _Erica!_ ”

_No..._

Peter was waving wildly, proving that subtlety was absolutely nowhere in his vocabulary. Dana was patting his chest and his arm, trying to get him to stop. The other men at the table – and at a few other tables – had all looked up in her direction. If anything, the music seemed to get louder as Erica helplessly met each of their eyes. When she spotted Ray, her throat seemed to dry out and she could feel her lips trying to pull up in an awkward smile. His expression suggested he didn't remember her at all, and from the looks of it he seemed vaguely annoyed. _Oh God, stop smiling!_ She tried to force her lips back to a normal position.

“Come on!” Peter called. “Don't be shy!”

_Bite me._

She somehow managed to make it over to the booth without tripping on anyone or knocking over any chairs. Egon slid closer to Ray as she got to them, opening up a space on the edge. Ray jumped as he was pushed against the wall, and Erica felt her knees wobble as he pulled her purse out from under him. He held it out to her, saying: “Oops, sorry.” His expression didn't change when she took the bag. Up close, she could see now that he looked extremely tired. His lips were drooping and his eyelids were low. _Something's wrong. What's wrong?_

Dana gestured. “Everyone, this is Erica Crane. She works at the Museum of Natural History. Erica, you know Peter. This is Winston, Egon, and Ray.” She pointed to each man in turn. Erica smiled at each of them, not trusting herself to speak. Ray and Egon both nodded back, Winston shook her hand with a smile.

“Come on, guys, let her sit by the window!” Peter urged. “Go on, her drink's there!” As the two men moved to get out of the booth, he threw Erica a wink. She longed to pick up Egon's drink and throw it in Peter's face. Instead she glanced at his shoulders. He still had the tension from this morning, and his forehead was wrinkled. She didn't know Winston or Egon well enough to guess their moods but Egon's eyebrows were drawn together and he was moving stiffly, as though in pain. There also seemed to be a slight pall over the table, despite Peter's enthusiasm.

“Are you going to sit?” Ray's voice was very close to her ear and Erica jumped, realizing she'd been staring at Egon, who was looking back at her with a curious look in his eye and an almost-smirk on his lips. The lines in his forehead had not changed. _Way to go._ “Yes,” she said quickly. “Thank you. Sorry.” She dropped into the booth and scooted over hurriedly, not wanting to inconvenience them further. Her hand slipped, knocking into the glass holding her cream soda, sending it flying towards Dana.

Peter's hand appeared out of nowhere, snaking around the glass, catching it smoothly before too much of the drink spattered across the table. Erica quickly began pulling out napkins, trying to mop up the mess, deciding that after cleaning it up she wasn't going to look at anyone or do anything for the next five minutes. Her radar perked up as Ray's warm body brushed against hers while he got comfortable in the booth again, and her arm went numb from electricity. She scrabbled at the ground with her feet, pressing herself into the corner, one hand still gripping her purse, the other full of wet napkins. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I'm sorry.”

“Naw, everyone's a klutz in heels,” Peter replied, throwing her a smile. “You should have seen me the first time I put them on. We were chasing this ghost through a woman's clothing store and it slimed all over my feet! So I couldn't run because my shoes had no traction. The only thing to do was put on a pair of heels and keep going because I wasn't going to catch that thing in my socks!”

The snorts around the table were indicative of a group of people used to a storyteller's performance rather than actual memories of a moment. Erica didn't believe a word of it but was thankful Peter was willing to try and take some of the pressure off. Her eyes slipped to Ray, who was staring at the beer in his hand, his eyebrows drawn together now as well. Next to him, Egon had taken out a notepad and was scribbling on it, completely oblivious to the world. Across the table, Dana's lips had pursed and her eyebrows were together too. Now that she was settled in the booth, Erica realized her nose was also picking up a strange new scent mixing with the delicious smell of pizza. The new scent was something old and musty and sweet, almost cloying. It smelled like Muriel's home whenever she had gone to visit. It also smelled like something new, something she'd smelled recently.

_If you want to know, just ask._

“What happened?” she asked.

Peter grinned. “Oh well, I turned a corner too fast and one shoe went one way and the heel went the other...”

“No....” Erica gulped with the boldness of cutting him off. _It's okay._ “No, I mean...your shoulders are still tense and Dana's frowning and...so are you.” The last part was to Ray, who had looked up at her. Up close, she realized the light had not been playing tricks on her. _His eyes..._ The difference between his green eye and brown eye was striking, enough so that she caught her breath and coughed. _They're beautiful._ She tried to look somewhere else but his lips were too soft and brought her thoughts to a place they didn't need to be. She looked away. “I mean, I don't mean to be rude, but the only one smiling around here is Peter. The rest of you look...serious. And you smell like you spent a week in my great-aunt Muriel's house.”

“I'm always serious,” Egon spoke up, looking up to fix her with an intense stare that literally made her stop breathing for a moment. _Wow. He's not kidding._ She looked at the others. They were looking at each other, clearly deciding whether or not to include her in the situation. _This is why I hate large groups._ Erica began to shrink backwards into the seat, lowering her eyes to the table and interlocking her fingers, twisting her hands together. _I shouldn't have said anything._

“Ray had a bad day at work,” Peter suddenly said. Erica looked up at him, unable to hide her surprise. His face was serious now, no mirth. “A ghost showed up and wrecked the place.”

“Oh no!” Erica felt her stomach drop at the same time the connection hit her. _The bookshop! That's where I know the smell from. It's old books and incense!_ “What's...is it okay?” _Oh my God did I just ask that?_ “I mean...” she looked at Ray, “are you okay?” _Would he be here if he wasn't?_

Ray gave her a look that suggested he didn't quite know how to react to her questions. _I don't blame you._ “It's not good.” He shook his head. “I don't know how I'm going to stay open.”

“Won't the insurance cover it?” Dana asked.

Ray shook his head. “Unfortunately that's not the problem. Insurance will cover most of the damages but I still have to pay the deductible. Plus fixing the shop up and replacing shelves and stock...I lost my first edition copy of Tobin's Spirit Guide.” He sighed and pressed his thumbs against his nose, groaning. “I'm such an idiot. I never thought this would happen to me.”

“It's not idiotic,” Erica said without thinking. “Everyone thinks that. And what with you being the reason all the ghosts are getting caught, it'd make you a prime target. It was probably only a matter of time before...” Ray was glaring at her, “...one of you...got...” _Not helping. At all._

“Statistically, she's right,” Egon spoke up. “Dana's been attacked twice but none of us have had any targeted paranormal experiences.”

Ray's eyes slid sideways and he inhaled deeply, shifting in his seat. “Spengler's right, Peter,” he continued. “This _was_ an attack. Not a ghost doing what it usually does.”

“That's what I said this morning,” Peter replied.

“No, you just said the ghosts were evading our traps better. And we agree with you.”

“So...what? You're at the top of this ghost's hit list?”

“It felt like it.”

“Well, Ray, not to be petty, but the ghost did turn Janine into a human pinball. Ever think that maybe it was after her?”

Ray paused for a moment. On his other side, Egon's eyes widened.

“Maybe,” Ray admitted. “It's not out of the realm of possibility. But it didn't go after her until I told her to get the trap from under the desk. It knew what I was telling her to do. That's when it started throwing her around and causing all those pressure changes. It was trying to disorient me so I couldn't get to the trap to help her.” He shook his head. “The ghosts _are_ getting smarter.”

“Our actions simultaneously make the world a better place for New Yorkers, and a worse place for the spectral denizens of the city,” Egon said, closing his notepad. “Given the amount of spiritual turbulence and imbalances we've created in the paranormal energy flow, it's no surprise that we are beginning to encounter adaptation and resistance. Nature will always try to balance itself out.”

“Nature?” Erica asked. “Ghosts are natural?” Even as she asked the question, she felt her throat closing in an effort to stop the words from coming out. _Of course they are._

“Of course they are,” Ray said. “Supernatural activity on our plane is a by-product of any number of actions in the physical or ethereal plane.”

“Be nice, Ray,” Peter interjected. “I'm not sure ghosts would like being called a by-product.”

Ray pushed on. “Ghosts and other paranormal beings existed long before humans did. But once humans started looking for things greater than themselves, they opened the door to the ethereal plane and consequently began to influence it with their own thoughts and desires and auras.” He looked back at Peter. “I'm not being dismissive. But humans can and have had an influence on ghosts. Just look at the slime.”

Dana shivered. Peter patted her arm. “Okay. No slime talk. We're here to eat. Speaking of which...” he looked around and put his arm up to wave again, bringing a waitress to their table. “Everyone's okay with sharing a pie? Winston? Erica?”

What else was she going to say? “Groovy.” Belatedly, she realized her hands were still full of purse and napkins. Her body was also beginning to ache from the frozen position she had been holding during the conversation. _I have to relax._ As Peter put on his most charming smile and placed an order for two pies, one normal cheese, one with everything, Erica forced herself to drop the purse to the floor, put down the napkins, reach out, and pick up her cream soda. The edges of the glass were sticky, and she tried to wipe it down with more napkins. They stuck, and she tore them off, wadding them all up and jamming them next to the napkin dispenser. Trying to keep calm, she took a gulp of pop. The sweetness gave her a burst of energy and she looked back over at Ray. With a deep breath, she gently touched his arm. His skin was hairy and warm, and the contact sent a little electricity through her. “Ray?” she asked quietly, a thrill of excitement shooting through her at the sound of his name on her lips. Her heart rate picked up again when he looked at her. “I'm...I'm sorry about the bookshop, really.”

A tiny little smile pulled at the edges of his lips, and the angry frown lines in his forehead eased just a touch. “Thanks,” he answered quietly, keeping the exchange private between them. Erica felt a smile spreading across her face and held it for another couple of seconds before pulling her hand away from him. Doing her best to keep casual, she looked up at Dana across the table.

Dana was smiling, her eyes darting between Erica and Ray. _Yep. Secret's out._

“So, Dana,” Ray spoke up, his voice a little lighter. “Are you bringing Oscar to the carnival this weekend?”

“I hadn't even decided if _I_ was going,” Dana answered, throwing Peter a look. “After all the excitement over New Year's Eve, Oscar's started to get a little fussy in large groups.”

“Well, maybe bringing him to the carnival will help with that. Maybe he'll start associating large groups of people as 'fun' instead of, you know...deadly.” Ray didn't sound entirely convinced of his own argument.

“You're right,” Dana confessed. “I guess I'm just not sure _I'm_ comfortable with it.”

“We'll be there.” Winston spoke up for the first time and Erica smiled. He had a voice she immediately liked, deep and ringing with an air of gentle confidence. Hearing that simple statement from him was enough to convince her that if Dana brought Oscar to the carnival, they'd both be perfectly safe.

Dana wasn't as easily swayed. She smiled. “I'll think about it.”

“It's going to be a lot of fun. I don't think I've been to a carnival in years! You grow up and you start paying bills and going to college and buying food and you forget how fun it is to eat a funnel cake and go on a Ferris Wheel.” Ray's demeanor was changing by the sentence now; the droop on his forehead gone and his eyes sparking with excitement. His smile was infectious and Erica felt the mood at the table changing, lifting.

“Not to mention the endless scientific theories and experiments you can perform at a carnival,” Egon added.

“Aw, Spengler, you're not going to turn this into work, are you? Can't we do something not ghost-related for once?” Winston asked.

Egon blinked at him. “We do, every day. You teach martial arts. I study the correlation of music in memory performance. I believe Venkman's television program is still on the air, despite his being labeled a fraud by every credible source in the country.”

“Hey, hey, hey, no need to publicize that!” Peter looked around quickly, checking to see if anyone had overheard. Erica hid a smile, recalling their conversation that morning about him trying to get her on the show. _Dodged a bullet, I think._

“Also, Raymond may be in need of some distraction now that his bookshop has been temporarily destroyed,” Egon continued.

“Oh, _thanks_ , Egie,” Ray griped.

“How much more do you have to do?” Dana asked.

“Too much,” Peter cut in. “He's got shelves to build, glass to replace, incense to buy, insurance to pay...”

“Which is why I need to go back after we eat,” Ray cut him off. “The insurance adjuster might be around tomorrow morning and I need to be ready if I am going to open in a couple days.”

Erica knew speaking up was a bad idea. She knew it. But just like with Peter that morning, she couldn't stop herself. “No, I think Peter's right. You aren't going to fix the bookshop in one night or even in two. You should go home after dinner and rest.”

“When did you two become my parents?” Ray asked. He didn't look angry, but there was definitely an annoyed tone to his voice. 

It should have been a clue, but Erica ignored it. “Ray, a ghost personally attacking your shop and your friend is traumatic, no matter what you do for a living. No matter how used to it you think you are. This was your place and something came in there without your permission and messed it up and hurt someone...” She trailed off as she saw the annoyance in Ray's eyes descend to his lips. She had more to say, more she thought might help and smooth over the awkwardness of the situation, but the look stopped her in her tracks.

“I can rest when I've gotten things taken care of,” Ray said, his voice firm and laced with frustration.

“Here we go!” The waitress came back, bearing two large pizza pies, breaking the tension just enough. Thankful for the save, Erica grabbed two slices, and flinched as she burned her fingers on the hot crust. Sticking one finger in her mouth to try and cool it, she dug out a fork and began cutting bite sized pieces. Silence filled the table as everyone began to eat. Erica felt the pressure of her speech and unsolicited advice on her chest. _Don't do it. Just eat._ A quick glance around revealed no one was really looking at each other. Erica caught Dana's eye and made a small 'whoops' face. Dana shrugged in return, not a comforting sight, and Erica returned to eating. _At least this pizza is really good._

_I can rest when I've gotten things taken care of._ Did he mean tonight? How many things? How long was he going to torture himself? Was he listening and going to go home tonight and rest, or was he going to go back to his store and try to make it like it had been that morning? Why couldn't she let it go? Why couldn't she _let it go_? Erica fixed her eyes on her plate, her mind screaming. Peter, this morning, had had a mad, exhausted glint in his eye. He hadn't wanted to talk but...he'd needed to. She had felt it. She'd gotten him the hot chocolate and fished around with her words in the hopes that she could identify the problem and then be soothing and helpful. Get him to talk. All it had done was make him upset. And this wasn't her business. It _wasn't her business._

That should have been another clue. But the pressure was too much. “I'm sorry, Ray.” She _had_ to help him. “I know it's none of my business. It's just...from what I can see here it seems to me like you're still dealing with the moment of the crisis, the ghost in the bookshop. The ghost is still there and you're doing everything you can to clean up after it and finish the day like it's normal, like it's any other day, where you had a problem but you didn't have to go to sleep before you could finish dealing with it. I know because I deal with things that way. I hate to leave something unfinished or admit that a hard thing happened to me. But if you don't accept that the hard thing happened, it will...drive you batty. So I just....I think it's best to accept the hard thing and go home. You have a lot of work to do and there's likely no way at all you're going to be open tomorrow, or the next day, or likely even by the weekend.” _B_ _e_ _tter. Maybe that_ will _help._ A great weight lifted from her shoulders and chest as her brain let go of the speech it had been holding in.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Then, Peter cleared his throat. “ _Wow._ You really _don't_ know when to stop, do you?”

The words drove the air from her lungs. _I was wrong. I was wrong to say that._ She'd pushed again and she'd pushed way too far, even worse than with Peter. She didn't dare turn her head to look at Ray, though she could sense his stillness. _Now I really do have to get out of here. Oh God, why_ _couldn't I let it go? Why can't I let things go? I just want to help!_ She took a bite of pizza and a gulp of pop, trying to enjoy the flavors but finding them almost tasteless in the end. She reached down and pulled out her purse, yanking open her wallet. She dropped a couple of bills on the table and said: “Excuse me.” To her horror, she heard her voice come out squeaky and warmth flooded her eyes. _No!_

She could see concern on Winston's face as she slid out of the booth. No one was saying a word, which only heightened the shame and embarrassment. No one was stopping her, which meant they were letting her go, which meant she had said something wrong enough that no one wanted her around. She opened her mouth. “I'm sorry. I'm...” Her voice was shaking now, and squeaking even more. Her eyes landed on Peter, who was staring straight ahead, his shoulders tense, his lips pursed. _I'm so sorry._

Then one tear leaked out of her eye and she spun and headed quickly out of the restaurant.

~*~

“What was _that_ all about?” Dana asked.

Peter sat with his hands in his lap, staring at the empty spot where Erica Crane had been. Egon was shaking his head. Ray still looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. Winston and Dana were both looking at him. “What?” he snapped. “Nothing! She did the same thing to me this morning. She obviously gets it in her head that she knows someone and just starts nosing into their business and telling them how they feel. _Someone_ had to tell her to back off.” 

“No, you're right. That was very rude of her, and it's certainly not what I would expect her to say,” Dana agreed. “Maybe she's having a bad day, too.”

“I doubt it,” Peter muttered. “She was fine this morning, except for her little panic when I caught her watching Ray open his shop.”  
“What?” Ray lifted his head.

“Your shop. We were down there this morning. Oh yeah, by the way, she watches you open your shop. Been doing it for days. Or hell, I don't know, weeks.” He didn't know how often she'd done it, but her behavior suggested it had been more than once, at least. _Good enough._ He was vaguely aware that he needed to stop talking but he couldn't. “I tried to make her go in there today but she wouldn't. She just stood there and tried to make me drink hot chocolate because she thought I had a bad night last night. Which I didn't. I'm fine!” _I watched my parents die last night. Again. But I'm fine._ “I just didn't want to see her get all high and mighty on you while you're dealing with the whole 'a ghost ruined my life today' thing.”

“You _did_ have a bad night last night,” Dana said sharply. “You were sweating and crying out most of the night. And you've been doing that for days. I can't wake you when you're like that.”

Peter wheeled on her, his eyes wide and his mouth partially open in surprise. _How could she just....in public?_ “I'm _fine_ , Dana!” he snapped...except it came out as a shout.

The restaurant quieted slightly, people turning to look. Dana's face hardened and she reached down to grab her purse. “Let me out.”

Peter groaned, putting his face in his hands. “No, wait...”

“Let. Me. Out.” Dana's voice was stiff and Winston was already out of the booth. Peter reluctantly shuffled over and Dana got out. “I'll see you at home, Peter. Good night, everyone.”

“Good night,” Winston said softly.

“Good night, Dana,” Ray murmured.

“Good night,” Egon echoed. 

Dana stalked away as well. Peter slowly sat back down.

Silence filled the booth as the Ghostbusters went back to eating. Peter shoved the pizza around on his plate, trying to figure out how this whole thing had become his fault. _That's the thing about nightmares. They just ruin your whole day._

After another few moments of silence, Winston shook his head. “Look, guys...we all just need to go home and rest. We got a heavy worksheet tomorrow and Ray's got plenty of work to do at the bookshop, so how about we just call it a night?”

The agreement was muttered and low-key. Within a few minutes, the four men had exited the restaurant into the loud, distracting city night.


	4. The Book and the Cat

Dark clouds obscured the moon shortly after Erica got home, though it was hardly noticeable given the neon glow of the city. She pulled off her clothes, getting into her pajamas, sat at her window, and pressed her forehead to the cool glass, letting silent tears roll down her cheeks. Images played out in her mind, images of the dinner, of what had happened and what could have happened. She went through dozens of apologies and responses and from those dozens she began to put together a speech, wording it over and over in her mind, memorizing it. When someone knocked on her door an hour or so later, she jumped but made no move to answer it, neither ready nor willing to face anyone. 

As the night's conversation played out in her mind, one thing kept jumping out at her. _Tobin's Spirit Guide, First Edition_. As the clock ticked past nine, Erica boldly picked up her phone and dialed a cross-country number. “Hello. This is Erica, calling for Muriel?”

“Erica! How nice of you to call! Now, what's wrong?” Muriel's familiar, scratchy voice held both joy and concern. 

Erica leaned her head against the window again, always amazed by Muriel's ability to sense how she was feeling. She supposed years of interaction helped, though Muriel had always been one to read people as soon as look at them. “I'm fine, really,” she said, but her voice shook, and before she knew it she was in tears and pouring out the whole story, starting with running into Dana that morning to the dinner she had just fled. 

Muriel was silent on the other line the whole time, only making little sounds to indicate she was there. When Erica was finally done, the woman said: “Well, you're in a right little pickle, aren't you.”

Erica snorted and wiped her eyes.

Muriel continued. “You're lucky I'm still around, you know. Any woman who chooses to spend her life buried in the past is always going to need help dealing with the present.” Erica heard her shuffling on the other side of the phone. “So, you're in love with one of these Ghostbusters, you tried to help him but got patronizing instead, and now you're trying to apologize?”

“I'm not in love...” 

“Erica, no matter if you are or aren't, you are an intuitive and intelligent young lady who has a tendency to stick her nose in other people's business. Just like me. I understand you want to help, but you have to learn _how_ to help someone. You have to listen to the warning signs, and you have to learn when someone actually _wants_ your help. That bluntness was cute when you were six. Now it's costing you valuable friendships.”

Erica bit her lip, Muriel's tough-loving words driving her into a tinier ball in the chair. She was right. She knew she was right. _All the warning signs were there and I just...ignored them. I ignored them because I like him and I wanted to help. I wanted to make him like me._

“I wanted to help him so much that I just...didn't even think about how he was feeling.” She said it out loud, making it real, cringing at the words. They sounded so childish.

“And that is my point. Also, taking care of someone isn't supposed to be done for selfish reasons. You aren't going to get an invite to dinner by coddling him.” Muriel's voice softened. “Now, do you have any plans for how you're going to fix this?”

Erica took a few shaking breaths. “I've been apologizing for hours in my head. I've been trying to figure out what to say...”

“And how does it sound?”

Erica ran through it again and sighed. “Rehearsed.”

“Go to sleep. It's late. When you talk to him tomorrow, don't sound rehearsed. I'll call you in the evening to hear about how it went.”

“One more thing, Muriel?”

“What's that?”

“Ray said he lost his first edition copy of Tobin's Spirit Guide. I was wondering if you knew any stores that might have it.”

Muriel's voice grew guarded “You can't buy his forgiveness, Erica.”

“I'm not!” Erica sat up. _I'm not_ that _stupid._ “I promise I'm not. He just...he was really upset about losing it and I thought you might have an idea...”

“I'll make some calls.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I Love you too. Be strong.” Muriel's voice grew lighter. “Now don't forget, tomorrow's July fifth, 1964. You had a hell of an Independence Day party.” 

The line went dead, leaving Erica momentarily bewildered. A few seconds later, she registered the joke, and chuckled. _A woman living in the past._ Muriel had a tendency to shake her grasp on reality just a little bit. She went to her kitchen and pick up the newspaper, verifying it was in fact June of 1990, then returned to staring out the window, feeling just a little bit better.

Eventually, the dark clouds gathering overhead split open, loosing sheets of heavy rain on the city. Lightning ripped through the sky, throwing shadows into stark relief. The buildings and roads below became blurred and Erica slowly, finally, drifted to sleep.

By the time the world began to turn grey with dawn, the streets were saturated and slippery with water and oil and the gutters were pouring rivers onto the pavement. The smell of wet everything filled the air as commuters woke up and frowned at their TV screens. Multicolored umbrellas and raincoats began marching along the streets. And Erica's alarm in her bedroom rang.

Erica awoke, her body screaming in pain from spending the night curled up on the couch. Her eyes burned from the makeup she'd never washed off, and her neck and shoulders whimpered as she straightened up and staggered to the bathroom. Looking at herself in the mirror, she grimaced and sighed. “You _have_ to apologize, rehearsed or not,” she murmured, forcing herself to keep eye contact. She swallowed two tablets of aspirin and splashed water on her face. Her sleep-deprived brain buzzed with half-finished thoughts, but she managed to glue that idea down and focus on it.

An hour later she limped onto the rainsoaked street, determined to make it to Ray's Occult Books before the owner, hoping dearly that he would be in a forgiving state of mind. She picked up a coffee and a hot chocolate along the way and arrived at the bookshop at a quarter to ten.

Ten minutes later, with the wet wind finding its way under her coat and starting to make her shiver, she saw him running down the cracked sidewalk. _Don't fall...._ She played with the idea of shouting at him to walk, that running would actually get him wetter, and bit her tongue. _Today is_ not _the day where you give your opinions on everything_. She took a couple of steps backwards, making sure he had an open path to the door.

He came up, holding his black coat over his head, his khakis spotted with mud and rain. He was wearing a white shirt with a dark blue button-down over it. His eyes, when they lifted to meet hers, were confused but alert. “Hi there.”

“H-Hi,” Erica replied.

Ray regarded her for a moment, and then dug in his pocket and pulled out a key, unlocking the grate in front of his shop, pulling it to one side and locking it in place. He flipped the keys around, looking for the one that unlocked the shop. Once he got the door open, he held it and looked back at her. “Come on in. But don't touch anything.”

Erica walked silently into the shop, setting the coffee tray gently on a stack of books, and closing the umbrella. She put the umbrella down just inside the door and picked up the tray again. 

Ray shut the door and turned to her. He wasn't smiling. “So what brings you into the bookshop this morning? Peter mentioned you had been coming by regularly for a few weeks but never actually made it across the street to the door.”

Erica's heart dropped into her shoes and her knees wobbled. _No..._ She could feel her face going numb and the overwhelming urge to run sent adrenaline to her legs. The only thing that kept her still was the fact that Ray was between her and the door. Her hands started shaking, and her eyes went to the floor. _I should have seen this coming._ “I...I...not _every_ day...”

“You know...” Ray moved away from the door but closer to her. She would still have to squeeze past him to run. Instead, she backed away, further into the shop. “If you want to ask a guy out, you don't stalk his place of work. And if you're casing the place, you don't bring anyone with you.” He chuckled humorlessly. 

Erica closed her eyes, wondering if she could possibly feel any more embarrassed. “I-I'm not trying to rob you,” she got out, her voice growing smaller by the word. She felt the bookshelf press against her back as she reached it, and she stopped, her body still shrinking in on itself. She opened her eyes and fixed them on his shoes. _I_ have _to look at him. I_ have _to._

His hands suddenly came into view, grabbing the drink caddy from her. She hadn't realized it was tilting at a dangerous angle, threatening to spill its contents all over the floor. She let him take it, and crossed her arms self-consciously in front of her. She couldn't raise her gaze.

“So what do you want?” Ray asked.

Erica tried to come up with the speech she had planned, the apology she'd been working on all last night. _Don't sound rehearsed,_ Muriel had said. That was impossible. Muriel had no idea what it was like to stand there and look at Ray's shoes (or any part of him, really), and be able to do anything resembling normal. And the revelation that Peter had betrayed her secret destroyed her confidence. She was, just like last night, exposed for the world to see. Deep inside, she thought: _well, what do I have to lose?_

The bravery inspired by that line was just not enough.

“Erica?” Ray's voice was firm, but she detected a slight softening of his tone. “Look, I can tell that Peter wasn't supposed to tell me that, which doesn't make me too happy but there's nothing I can do about that now. So here's what you're going to do. You're going to act like you don't know I know about you watching me, and you're going to tell me whatever it was you were going to tell me. And then you're going to leave my shop and if you ever come back, you're going to come in and either talk to me or buy something. Right now, I'm not even a hundred percent convinced that you don't have something to do with the ghost that came through here.”

The horror inspired by that last line _was_ enough. Erica knew she could be blamed for a lot of things, but not the reason his shop was destroyed. “I don't!” she burst out, looking up at him. The familiar rush of pleasure and embarrassment at seeing him shot down her spine but she didn't look away. His eyebrows were drawn together again sternly, and his lips were pursed. He was standing straight, arms crossed on his chest, staring her down. _Damn it, why is he so attractive? Even when he's angry?_ “I had nothing to do with the ghost that came through here, I promise! I...yes, I've come by the shop to watch you open it because I like you.” _Well that just came out, didn't it? As if it's a secret anymore...._ “I mean...you always seem so nice on the commercials and you've got a great smile and...” _Making it_ worse _! Stop!_ “And I'm sorry about last night.” _Better._ “I came by because I'm sorry about last night. I brought the coffee because I know you have a long day and I brought the hot chocolate because whenever I have a bad night, I drink hot chocolate the next day to feel better and last night didn't go well for me because I was _totally_ rude to you and I'm not like that all the time, I swear...” _Back on topic!_ “But anyway I know last night was bad for you because you already were dealing with a ghost breaking your shop and hurting your friend and then I just...” _You're repeating things! The speech! Get to the speech!_ “We barely...we _don't_...know each other and I really didn't have... _don't_ have...the right to just talk at you like that. You had a hard day and the last thing anyone wants to hear when they've had a hard day is 'man up and deal with it.' So I'm sorry. I'm so, _so_ sorry for how I spoke to you.”

The flow of words stopped and, just like that, she felt her brain blank out. The fear began to creep in again, accompanied by realization of what she had just said. _Could I have babbled more? Oh my God, did he even understand my apology in all that mess? Did I even apologize?_

Ray was staring at her. His posture had relaxed, his arms sinking to his sides, his eyebrows returning to their normal position. The hardness in his eyes had even eased somewhat. He swallowed, cleared his throat, glanced at the coffee and hot chocolate, and back to her. “All right.”

_All right?_

Ray moved towards the door, opened it, and held it. “Thank you,” he said. “For the apology and the drinks.”

Erica stared at him for a moment, feeling the slow waves of horror wash over her. Ray's face was stern and his words were dismissively polite. _That's the way it is._ _No need to go over it again. You apologized. He answered. Get out._ She forced herself to look away from him, making sure she had a clear path to the door so she didn't make a bigger mess on her way out.

Her eyes landed on the small table beside her. It held nothing but a simple book, a small tome of about four by six inches. It had a leather cover and was closed with a leather strap. The front of it read: “You have a job to do.” A powerful compulsion overcame her and she picked it up, staring at it. It felt heavy and right in her hands, its contours pleasant and welcoming, its color cozy and warm. 

Erica looked up at Ray and asked softly: “How much is this book?” Her voice sounded different to her, almost like a monotone. She was vaguely aware that this should be scaring her.

Ray's face looked a little different from a few seconds ago. His expression was fixed, flat. His voice was equally robotic as he replied. “Fifty dollars.”

Erica nodded and reached for her purse. “May I buy it?”

“Of course,” Ray tilted his head. “I don't think anyone has ever asked me if they can purchase something from my shop before.”

Erica withdrew the money from her wallet. “You've had a mess. The shop is closed. But this book...”

“...is yours,” Ray finished the sentence immediately. “I understand. I'll write you a receipt.” He took the money over, dropped it in the cash register, and hand-wrote the receipt. Erica stayed in place, remembering that he had told her not to touch anything. But this book was hers. She knew it somehow, and she was glad he decided to sell it because she hadn't wanted to shoplift it out.

Ray returned, handing her the receipt. “It's yours.”

“Thank you.” Erica slipped the receipt and the book into her purse, closing it securely. She moved back to the door and picked up her umbrella. “Have a good day, Doctor Stantz.”

“Same to you, Miss Crane.”

Erica exited the shop into the sheets of rain, turning and heading for the subway and the day's work.

~*~

Ray stood in his shop for several moments after closing the door, staring at the table where the little book had been. Deep inside his mind, he felt something yelling and battering, begging to be heard. But it was all covered by an overwhelming sense of relief. The book had moved on. Its part in his life was over. His knees wobbled and he hurriedly dropped to a crouch, breathing deeply. _It will be read. The job will be done._

It was several moments before he rose to his feet, and as he turned to face the destruction of his bookshop, all thoughts of the book slipped from his mind.

~*~

Egon Spengler enjoyed the quiet of the Firehouse.

“Quiet” was relative, of course. The electricity and heating/cooling elements were always running, providing a steady background drone of noise. Janine, Peter, and Ray were usually talking, and occasionally Egon would pick up on an interesting word or two and follow the conversation while he worked. And of course all the sounds of New York City hummed just outside, filtering in whenever the doors opened and closed. 

But sometimes Egon was alone in the Firehouse, or sometimes he was downstairs in the concrete room that held their rebuilt storage unit. Sometimes the only sound he really heard was his nervous system, buzzing loudly in his ears, and his heartbeat, swishing blood through his veins and arteries. Those days had been more frequent lately, and he had been enjoying the solitude, a place to lay out his thoughts and images from his mind. It made working easier.

Today, however, was one of the louder days. Unexpectedly, Janine had come in right on time for her usual shift. Egon had not been anticipating her arrival and consequently had immediately retired downstairs after greeting her. Now he was sitting on the stairs, staring at a PKE meter, wondering when he was going to be comfortable enough to go back up and get a file he needed. Up above, Janine's voice rose up and down as she talked on the phone, taking notes for the worksheets for the next few weeks. Ray had estimated Janine would not be coming in to work. He'd obviously underestimated Janine's work ethic.

_You are a scientist. This type of behavior is not only ridiculous, it's unacceptable. We were engaging in courtship, and I...she...the expected standards were not met. There is no reason why we cannot peacefully coexist as coworkers._

That wasn't entirely true. Janine Melnitz was a constant distraction at work. Egon Spengler had spent all of his life in the pursuit of science. All science. Janine's behavior towards him had been indicative of the desire to initiate a mating ritual, and he had used everything he knew to reciprocate her advances. He had grown fond of her behaviors after a while, and then her herself. After that, it had gotten complicated. Because while Egon Spengler had spent all of his life in the pursuit of science, that pursuit had come at the cost of many sociocultural expectations.

_I was inadequate._

He shook his head fiercely, denying the statement as best he was able. But it lived in the bottom of his animal brain and reared its ugly head repeatedly. It got loud whenever he saw Janine kiss Louis Tully on the lips. It got louder when the two of them walked off together, Janine's sultry hips swinging, and Louis bumbling apelike after her. It got so loud that sometimes Egon would put on music with the volume all the way up, torturing his eardrums and vibrating his head, just to shake the thought out.

_I was inadequate._

He had performed all of the expected duties of dating, and had made love to Janine in his bed on the second floor. He'd had a number of intriguing and enjoyable reactions during the act, (which Janine had called 'wonderful'), and had felt confident he had performed satisfactorily for both of them. He had started to look for the definition of 'relationship', understanding that he and Janine had reached that level. And that was where everything stopped.

Even though Janine called the experience 'wonderful', she suddenly began to avoid him. This confused Egon, who understood that human females often drew closer to their mates after intimate relations. Usually this was due to a pregnancy, but Janine didn't show signs of that, (which was a good thing, since Egon had no desire for progeny). When he had broached the subject with her, she had done her best to remain as vague as possible. Egon, irritated as he wondered where he had failed in the courtship, had pressed the issue. Janine had exploded, calling him 'cold' and 'distant' and informing him that she was well aware he had viewed the entire experience as an 'experiment'. Egon, stunned by the harsh and untrue accusation, had tried to change her mind. He had tried to let her know that he had come to care about her, and that any coldness he was displaying was due to his lack of experience in the realm of human relationships. Janine had informed him that it wasn't experience he was lacking, just emotion. She had stormed out, and that had been that.

For years, Egon had wondered what he had done wrong. He knew he did not experience emotions the same way as everyone else, but he had thought that Janine knew and accepted that about him. Gradually, he had come to believe that while he had failed to communicate something to her, he had also failed to monitor his own progress in the courtship to see if he was reacting correctly to everything that happened. 

_I_ am _inadequate._

“Honey, I'm home!”

Peter's voice suddenly rang out from one floor above, breaking Egon from the pain of those three words. He stood up and rolled his shoulders, sighing deeply. _A distraction._ Now that he was no longer alone, he would have no problem going upstairs to get the file and start his day. _Thank goodness Peter's here._

~*~

“Honey, I'm home!”

Janine Melnitz looked up from her computer as Peter's voice, followed by his light, confident footsteps, echoed through the Firehouse. “Good morning, Doctor Venkman,” she replied dryly. “There's coffee to your left and an emergency call here at the desk.”

“There's always an emergency. My God, how did people survive with ghosts before we started advertising?” Peter came into view around the Ecto-1, shaking the rain out of a black umbrella, dressed casually in khakis, a white button-down shirt, and that annoying orange jacket he was so fond of. Janine hated the jacket; it made him look like the Kool-Aid Man. For a moment, she imagined splashing the freshly-made coffee all over it, just as an accident. She was in enough pain as it was from the damn ghost the previous day, she could just pretend to drop the pot when she went to refill it later...She sighed and shook her head. 

Peter dropped the umbrella off near his locker and hopped casually over to the desk. Janine took a good look at him. Something was off. He was chipper and grinning, but there were bags under his eyes and he was wobbling. There was no alcohol smell when he leaned over to pick up the emergency worksheet, and the coffee cup was full almost to the point of ruining her desk. _He's not sleeping._ She'd seen that early on, when the Ghostbusters had just started work. Ray would stumble in, holding a trap, weaving all over the Firehouse until Janine got a hold of his arm and guided him downstairs. Egon had fallen asleep on the stairs more times than Janine could count (and more than once she'd just sat down and taken a catnap next to him). Peter would sometimes start snoring from his office, causing Janine to have to bang a drawer or slam down the phone to wake him up. Over time, the men had started regulating their sleep schedules, and eventually once they started taking on cases alone or in pairs, there had been fewer flopped bodies around the HQ. Much more professional.

As to why Peter wasn't sleeping now, however - that came as no surprise. Dana had come home last night angry, her eyes flashing and her jaw set. She'd left to try and talk to a neighbor down the hall, but had come back a few minutes later, apparently unsuccessful. Janine had left, exiting the building just as Peter came in. His face had been set and guilty and he hadn't even said thank you to her for watching Oscar despite her being thrown around like a rag doll only a few hours before. She considered throwing that in his face and then decided against it. Dana had been thankful and kind with the money. Peter was Peter and from what she'd seen of Dana, he was going to get it.

Footsteps brought Janine's gaze to the stairwell, where Egon was emerging from the basement. Her eyes lingered ever so slightly on him, the familiar sting in her eyes and shiver in her chest. He looked at her for a moment and then his eyes slid away. “Good morning, Peter.”

“Look at this,” Peter said, thrusting the sheet at him. “Ghost cat at the Pet Shack downtown. Funny, I figured if anything would be haunted at that place, it'd be the parrot. It's always trying to unlock the cages. And it mouths off if it catches you looking at it.”

“Do you make it a habit to visit this shop?” Egon asked.

Peter blinked. “Well...no...I just...see it on my way here. And when we're cleaning up ghosts in the nearby area.”

Janine hid a smile at the blustering. Who knew Doctor Venkman had a soft spot for animals? Her eyes slipped to Egon again. He was reading the worksheet, so she let herself stare for a little while, remembering (as she always did), everything, from the first to-the-point “Would you like to eat with me?” to the feeling of his body on hers in the bed upstairs. The journey in-between had been filled with so much that she could feel it pushing on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

_I destroyed us._

That was it in a nutshell for her. As they had lain there in bed after making love, she'd listened to Egon breathing steadily in sleep and she'd thought about all the work she'd done for him and all the work he'd done for her. She knew he had carefully researched most or all of everything he'd done, from the restaurant he'd taken her to on their first date, to the nerve cluster behind her ear that that, if kissed, brought all of her desire raging to the front. Knowing all that, she'd found herself wondering if she was _worth_ him. She had chosen to pursue him because she felt like she could be the one to show the cute, clueless scientist _all_ of the amazing things the world had to offer. She hadn't counted on the man he would become because of her teachings...nor could she ever have guessed the feelings he would cement in her.

_I destroyed us._

The guilt had been overwhelming. She'd fought to rationalize it, confess that she had gotten in over her head, that she hadn't expected this outcome. She'd reminded herself that she hadn't planned on finding a boyfriend or a husband, and while she felt extreme affection for Egon, she worked for him, and therefore there really couldn't be anything between them. She admitted that she needed some time away, to sort out her brain, to see what was really happening under the haze of afterglow. 

But the longer she stayed away from Egon, the worse it got. She began to dread coming into work. She avoided answering the phone at home in case it was him. She treated him coolly and bolted down her lunch as she hid in corners. She was so focused on avoiding him so she could get space to think that she did nothing to help combat the guilt and confusion she felt. Eventually, her frustration with herself began to boil over.

That was when he had started asking her what he'd done wrong.

The ensuing fight had broken Janine's heart. She'd directed all of her frustration at herself to him, pinning the blame on him, pushing as much of the pain onto his narrow shoulders as she needed. She had never forgotten the stricken, shocked look on his face as she stormed out. She'd cried at home for days. Then, she'd done the opposite of what most women did when they broke up with a man. She tried to make herself unattractive, to take the guilt inside and show it on the outside for the ugly thing it was. The only thing that had done was attract Louis Tully, and she had let that happen, even pushed for it, trying to do anything to forget about how she had ruined a perfectly good thing.

_I love him, and I destroyed us._

“Janine? You have anything else for us?”

Janine blinked, coming back, realizing in horror that she'd been staring at Egon, who was staring back at her. His expression was neutral, with hints of hurt confusion. He couldn't figure out why she was paying so much attention to him. She looked away and over her desk, her mind racing to catch up. Her peripheral picked up another body nearby, and she glanced over in surprise to see Winston. _When did he get here? How long have I been staring?_

“Maybe you ought to go home,” Winston said, his voice gentle.

“I'm fine,” Janine snapped. “Just have a headache.”

Peter regarded her for a long moment before nodding. He patted the desk and headed for the lockers. “Let's go catch that cat.”

Winston followed. After a moment, Egon did too. His hand dropped to the desk as he walked by, and something slipped out of it onto the papers, rolling towards Janine. She caught it quickly and looked after him. He didn't turn around.

Janine turned her gaze back to her hand. She was holding a small bottle of aspirin. She began to smile slightly. _How sweet._ She'd taken some that morning, but it was still kind of him to try and help. She slipped the bottle into her purse and began to straighten the papers on her desk. To her surprise, she saw a small, handwritten note near where Peter's hand had patted the desk. Eyebrows furrowing, she picked it up and read it.

_“Janine. Thank you. We can't do this without you. I'm sorry you got hurt. Peter.”_

“Would it kill him to say this out loud?” Janine sighed. But she still folded up the note and put it in her purse, feeling slightly better about the day.

~*~

“Well, this is....different,” Peter mused, staring at the scene before him.

“No wonder Janine shifted all of our appointments for this,” Winston agreed.

Normally, an annoyance such as a ghost cat causing havoc in a pet store would be put on the list for removal within twenty-four hours, (businesses usually had to wait no more than a day due to their nature). But Janine had classified this as an 'emergency', bumping it to the top of the list, and Peter had no trouble understanding why. Behind him, and on the other side of a locked door, stood a crowd of maybe fifteen people, at the front of which was a crying, blonde-haired woman. He, Winston, Egon, and the store owner stood by the front register, the smells of food, rawhide bones, and various animals filling the air. Shrieks and yells and barks and hisses assaulted their ears as the animals fought their cages or hid inside of them. At the center of the mess sat a young girl, her face bright red. She was crying helplessly, Either unable or unwilling to let go of the beautiful, translucent, short-haired tabby laying in her lap. Occasionally, a violent sneeze would interrupt her sobs. Peter could tell she was allergic to the animal dander floating around, and wondered vaguely what she was even doing in the store to begin with.

“The cat just appeared out of nowhere,” the store owner said. He was a jovial Irish-Italian named Kevin with a big smile and expressive eyes, just the kind of man who would be perfect handling a store full of animals. “The little girl came running in and her mother told her to wait outside but the cat appeared and she sat down and started petting it and...she hasn't stopped.”

“So the ghost is compelling her to pet it?” Egon asked.

“You're the expert!” Kevin shot back.

“And no one's tried to just pick her up and take her out of the store?” It was a harsh question but it would have been Peter's first action. _G_ _et the child out of danger._

“Can't,” Kevin sighed. “Everyone who gets close gets clawed. Cat won't let it happen.”

“Did you try?” Peter looked at him.

Kevin nodded. “Didn't leave a mark but it hurt like it was tearin' my skin off.”

“Ray would be interested in this,” Egon mused.

“Right now I'm interested in getting this little girl out of here,” Winston broke in. “Even if we got all the animals into one room, the hair and dust in the air would still be in her nose.” He looked at Egon. “Did Janine say what we're dealing with?”

Egon looked at Peter.

Peter stared. “How should I know?”

“You had the worksheet,” Egon rolled his eyes.

“You looked at it too!”

“Yes, and it's good I did,” Egon looked at the store owner. “What we have here is a class six full-torso corporeal entity. While it may not look like it, these are notoriously difficult to trap. I'd like to request that you step outside.”

“The hell I will, this is my shop and I'll help you get rid...”

“This ghost will fight back,” Egon cut him off, “and we'd rather any potential damage be limited to structure and stock.” He moved to the door and began to open it. “Please wait outside.”

“Whoa, wait!” Kevin yelped. “Don't open that door, the mother will...”

He was too late. With the door cracked, the mother reached in and pulled it open the rest of the way, leaping into the store and running for the girl. The cat hissed, the girl screamed, and Peter lunged for the mother, trying to stop her. He missed, barely catching himself on a shelf. The mother grabbed her child and the cat swiped furiously, causing screams to erupt from both women. The mother charged backwards, heading for the open door, the cat running after her. Winston dove for the cat, trying to grab it, and Peter pulled the stick from the proton pack, switching it on. The cat dodged Winston but lost ground in its chase. The mother, child, and store owner got out the door, slamming it shut and locking the Ghostbusters in.

The cat turned to look at them.

“Here we go,” Peter said.

The cat hissed.

Peter fired.

The proton stream tore across the floor, leaving a scorch mark in its wake. The cat leaped to the side, tearing towards Peter and then past him, forcing him to turn off the stream in an effort not to burn himself. Winston yelled and fired, the stream cutting the cat's headlong rush off but turning it sideways down an aisle. Winston followed, his proton stream slicing through the shelves, sending gerbil bedding flying in all directions. Peter sneezed as the dust filled the air. 

“Kitty kitty kitty!” Egon shouted. Peter turned in time to see Egon pop open a can of cat food and set it down on the floor. There were already three other cans open. Egon frantically waved his hand over the top of the can, trying to waft the smell of the cat food into the room.

“Egon, what the hell are you doing?” Winston called.

“Venkman, look out!” Egon gasped.

The cat, who had leaped to the top of a shelf, was coming right down towards Peter, who realized at the last moment that he was between the cat and the food Egon was setting out. _Wait, that's actually working?_ he thought before his body reacted, hurling the stick up and firing. The proton stream went right by the animal, slicing the top off of the two nearest birdcages. The birds went wild, flapping crazily out. Among them was the parrot, who buzzed Peter's head squawking: “Rrawk! Dipshit!” 

Peter seriously considered firing another stream at the bird as it soared over to the cash register, now yelling: “Rrawk! Bad kitty! No treat! Bad!” Instead, he turned back to see catastrophe happening. 

The cat was winding its way between Egon's feet, completely trapping the scientist. He seemed almost hypnotized by it, but Peter could tell from his wide eyes that he was both frightened and amused. He was aiming the stick at the animal but he had no shot without hitting himself – and consequently, Peter realized, none of them had a shot as long as it was that close to him. “Egon,” he said, “can you....”

The cat very suddenly changed its tactic, locking its claws into Egon's leg, and climbing the scientist like a tree. Egon yelped in pain and swatted at the cat, trying to spin away from it. He fell, flipping the cans of cat food, two of which came down on him, spattering his face and chest with their contents. The cat strutted up, sniffed the food, and ignored it. It strolled up to Egon's chest, sat, and began cleaning itself. One of the birds flying around the store dive-bombed the animal, and it stood up, swinging, its back claws sinking into Egon's chest. The man yelped again.

“Hell with this!” Winston stepped forward and reached out with both hands, trying to grab the cat. Another bird cut him off, swooping between the animal and Egon's face. Egon twisted his head away as Winston, distracted, swatted at the bird instead. The bird flew away, and Winston refocused his sights on the cat, whose response was to arch its back, hiss...and then start hacking.

“Is that thing about to cough up a hairball?” Peter asked.

“Please don't make me find out!” Egon yelled.

Winston reached for the cat again, who threw itself to the side, still hacking. Seeing his shot, Peter took it. The proton stream skittered past Egon and nicked a bag of birdseed, exploding it over everyone. The cat, despite being pelted with birdseed, was too far gone, and indeed hacked up a nice-sized ghost hairball on the floor. The proton stream wrapped around the distracted animal and it howled in rage.

“Egon, the trap!” Peter shouted.

Egon hurled his thin body around, fighting the weight of the proton pack. He rolled and came to his knees, throwing the trap towards the cat. The cat seemed to recognize the trap, hurling itself furiously against the proton stream. It seemed to Peter for a moment that the creature was losing corporeality, its tail and paws becoming more difficult to see, and then it broke out of the proton stream, leaping into the air. _Again? Come ON!!_

Winston was there, firing a confinement stream now, catching the ghost mid-leap. “I got it, Spengler, but not for long!”

“I'm opening the trap!” Egon replied. “Get ready! Three....two....one.... _now!_ ”

Peter twisted away as the roar of the trap filled the room. He heard an angry screeching and felt something go flying past his face. He instinctively twitched, trying to brush whatever it was away, but his fingertips met nothing. The trap hissed and roared, pulling a firm gust of wind through the store, and then there was the familiar silence. Until...

“Cha-CHING!” the parrot squawked. Peter opened his eyes in time to see the bird riding the cash drawer of the register as it opened. The parrot dipped its head and came up with a $20. It flew over to Peter and dropped the bill at his feet. “Cash only!”

Peter shook his head and turned back to check the trap, hoping against hope that they had actually managed to stop the insane cat.

They had. The trap was smoking, the light blinking. They'd caught the ghost.

Peter's eyes slid to Egon.

Egon was standing very still, holding the trap. Five birds (including the parrot) perched on him, pecking the birdseed off of his jumpsuit and out of his hair. His gaze met Peter's, and he said in a low, tense voice: “Never...tell... _anyone..._ about this.”

Peter grinned widely, helplessly, the relief making him giddy. “Tell anyone about what, Doctor Dolittle?”


	5. The Carnival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to say this individually but again: thank you all so very very much for your reviews and constructive criticism! I welcome both - I am always looking to be a better writer and I appreciate you reading my story and taking the time to tell me what I'm doing right and wrong!

**Chapter V**

**The Carnival**

The earlier storms of the week gave way to sizzling temperatures and suffocating humidity for the next few days, crushing New York City and the Ghostbusters under its weight. The days crawled along. Ray managed to strike a deal, convincing his adjuster to move him to the top of the list for getting his shop assessed. When the quote was given for the work that would need to be completed, Ray looked sick. Peter reassured him that it could have been much worse. Ray reluctantly agreed, and then proceeded to fill the Firehouse with the contents of his shop, clearing space for the repairs to take place. 

Egon was uncharacteristically moody, spending the days dodging Peter and the others. He even snapped at Janine. Janine, who was already agitated from sore bruises and the fact that her workspace kept getting smaller as Ray moved his books in, finally lost her temper and tried to climb over the desk to get at Egon. Luckily, Winston was there to talk her down.

There was another reason why Janine was so on edge. Kevin, in addition to paying the Ghostbusters' fee, stormed into the Firehouse on Wednesday and slammed a covered cage down on Janine's desk. Peter uncovered it and was shocked to find the ornery parrot inside. The bird instantly unleashed its fury, and Janine got in its face and shouted right back. The bird didn't shut up until Peter threatened its life. It then spent the next two days learning Janine's best insults and hurling them at very inopportune moments. Kevin refused to take the bird back, saying it had been calling nonstop for Peter. Peter didn't quite believe him, but it soon became obvious that Peter was the only one the bird would listen to. 

Dana was cool at home for a little while. Then as Peter's nightmares worsened, she grew steadily more compassionate. She apologized to Peter for publicly announcing his secret, and revealed that Erica had apologized to Ray on Tuesday morning. By the time Saturday rolled around, however, Peter had still seen neither hide nor hair of Erica, and he was seriously considering begging everyone to just forget the carnival. The dreams had, if possible, gotten worse. He was no longer just listening to his parents die. Sometimes he saw Ray, his last gaze one of confusion. Sometimes he saw Egon, crumpled on the ground, his PKE meter still in his hand. Sometimes he saw Dana, staring at him as the world around her caught fire.

The fear was becoming constant as well, a real thing, coupling itself with guilt. He'd had the dream so often now that he could recite it from beginning to end. And yet, despite all of Egon and Ray's reassurances that lucid dreaming was real, he couldn't stop a single bit of it from happening. It had been almost a week and a half of every night, and his patience was wearing thin.

“Peter, you're scaring me.”

The sentence came from Dana, her first of the morning. Peter turned his head to look at her. She was propped up on an elbow, the sheets demurely covering most of her body, regarding him seriously. The sun glinted on her sleep-tousled hair and highlighted the angles of her face and shoulders. He stared at her light brown eyes for a few moments, still a hundred percent convinced he'd never seen anyone so beautiful. As he looked, the frown lines in her face eased a little and her lips began to curl into a smile. “Don't look at me like that. I'm serious.”

“Like what?” Peter replied. “I just spent the whole night trying to save you from certain death. Again. Can't I look at the result of my work?”

Despite herself, Dana smiled, and touched his face with her long, warm fingers. “Are you going to tell me what was trying to kill me this time?”

“No.” Peter shook his head as a crushing weight of fear and panic pressed on his chest. He took in a deep breath, trying to will it away. The patches of sunlight on the bed felt like they were burning through the covers and onto his skin, and he threw the blanket off, pushing himself to his feet.

Dana pushed herself up to a sitting position, the blankets falling away to reveal her white nightgown. “Well, then I'll say it again: You're scaring me. You're waking up screaming and sweating every night. You won't talk about it. And I can see that you're starting to get scared to go to sleep. Is the carnival that bad?”

Peter yanked a shirt on, whirling to face her. “It's not the carnival. I was having these dreams before the carnival showed up in town.” He ran his fingers through his hair. 

Dana got out of bed and came around to stand in front of him. “Then _talk_ to me. That's what I'm here for, you know. Among other things.” She smiled a little bit at the implication, but Peter wasn't foolish enough to think it was an invitation. He stared at her for another moment, and then tried to move around her. She stopped him. “Every night. For almost a week and a half.” 

Peter didn't know what to say.

Dana put a hand on his shoulder. “Peter, I love you. Let me help you.”

Peter's breath caught. It wasn't the first time Dana had said the words, but it never failed to get his mind straight when she did. She loved him and that meant he had someone. He had the potential for family and home and future, right here. He took a step closer to her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her deeply, letting himself fall into the relief and comfort of her body.

“This doesn't change anything,” Dana chuckled fifteen minutes later. She rolled over on the rumpled bed and pressed her body gently against his side, absently tracing a finger over his chest. Her hair, tousled now for a very different reason, floated like a cloud around her head, and her flushed skin glimmered in the mid-morning light. “You're very good at distraction, but I still want to know what the dream is about.”

Peter exhaled in a small chuckle and sighed deeply, staring at the ceiling. “I don't want to talk a lot about it,” he said. “I don't. But look, I told you and the guys a while ago that my parents were killed in an accident at the carnival we worked at. I didn't tell you how. That's because I don't know how. I was told it was a spooked horse. I didn't see it. I only heard pieces of what happened. My mind's been filling in the blanks long enough that I can watch the whole thing happen like I'm right there. Dad gets trampled by the horse. Mom's crushed. Either by stampeding people or the tent falls on her. It's been so long, I don't know if I'm making it up or if it's what I was told.” He stopped, feeling the weight on his chest again, and swallowed. His eyes were beginning to burn, probably from the sunlight coming through the window, and he rubbed them. His fingers came away wet. He cleared his throat.

“That's awful,” Dana said softly. Peter didn't want to look at her now. He'd seen enough of the look he was sure she was giving him. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I've heard enough of that.”

“I know,” Dana answered. “But it's still an awful thing. I can't imagine reliving that every night.” He felt a weight on her shoulder as her head came to rest on him. The hand tracing his chest moved across him in an embrace. Dana didn't say anything else, offering silent comfort. Over the next few minutes, Peter felt the weight in his chest begin to lift, far more than it usually did. Telling Dana was having a greater therapeutic effect than he thought, and he closed his eyes to breathe it out. 

A knock at the door twenty minutes later startled both of them from the afterglow doze. “Shit,” Dana muttered as she got up, wobbling slightly as she grabbed a robe and wrapped it around her. Peter got up much more lazily, moving to the bathroom and turning on the shower. He heard Dana greet someone but didn't catch who it was over the sound of the water. He stood under the warm spray for a little longer than usual, feeling the tension drain out of his body. _I'm still not going to the carnival today. I'll stay home and watch Oscar._

Mind made up, he shut off the water and got out, drying off and heading into the bedroom to throw on a pair of jeans and shirt. When he walked barefoot into the living room, however, he got a surprise.

Dana was feeding Oscar, who was sitting in a high chair and thoroughly enjoying smearing food on the bib he was wearing. And Erica Crane sat on the couch, her feet curled up under her like a cat. She was wearing a pair of bright red leggings and a white button-down shirt tied at her midriff, exposing a pale, thin line of skin. Her long hair was down around her shoulders, and she was smiling at the eating child, oblivious to Peter's presence. _What's she doing here?_

“Hello?” he said, the greeting coming out more questioningly than he intended.

Erica's head jerked around to him and a flutter of discomfort showed on her face. She slowly stood up, folding her hands in front of her midriff, beginning to twist her fingers together. “Hi.”

“Erica's coming with us today,” Dana said.

Peter blinked. “What?”

Dana looked up. “I invited her. This has been a hard week and all of you need to take a break. So we're all going to the carnival.”

The terror hit Peter in the stomach, forcing an exhalation. It took all of his energy not to scream _no!_ He tried to open his mouth to respond normally, act like this was no big deal, but no sound came out. Erica's eyes narrowed, focusing on him, and she took a step forward. “Peter? Are you all right? You're white as a sheet!”

Dana looked over and her eyes widened. “Peter.” Her warm, husky voice was laced with both concern and care, and it slipped through the cracks in his howling mind. _Get a hold of yourself!_ He gasped slightly, remembering how to breathe, and forced himself to look at Erica.

“I'm fine,” he said, hating how thin his voice sounded. “Bad dreams. You understand.” _Don't ask me anything else._ There was no point in hiding that part of it, at least. And Dana understood on a whole other level now. If Erica pushed, he was sure Dana would come to his rescue.

To his surprise, however, Erica didn't push. She nodded and slowly sat down on the couch, then pointed at the door. “I have hot chocolate in my room if you want some.”

“You're _really_ obsessed with hot chocolate, you know,” Peter muttered, sitting on the couch next to her. His nervous system was screaming in his ears, and he forced himself to breathe slowly.

Erica laughed, the sound nervous and a little guilty. “I know. When I was growing up, my mother was a firm believer that a cup of tea solved everything. I didn't like tea, so we had to find alternatives. And since I had to be strange and not want just one drink for everything, we had to come up with this silly little system...” She blushed, looking down at her fidgeting fingers. “It's weird, I know. But it helps. Even if it's just a placebo effect.”

Peter nodded and looked around the room, organizing his thoughts. He needed another distraction. _They're going to the carnival. Someone's going to die there._

_Stop. It'll be fine. It'll be_ fine _._

“Look,” he said quietly, “I'm sorry about what happened at Jake's.” _This'll work._ “I was having a bad day. We all were. And you have this great habit of telling people what they're thinking and feeling.” He could see Dana listening out of the corner of his eye and while he knew this conversation should be private, he wanted Dana to hear him doing it. “It's annoying, all right?”

Erica closed her eyes. “I know. I'm sorry, too. And I'm sorry for pushing you so much that morning. I told you I'm good at reading people. The problem is when I see someone who's upset I just want to help them.”

“Well, not everyone _wants_ your help,” Peter said. _That came out ruder than I meant._ He cringed inside.

Erica regarded him for a moment. Her voice trembled a little. Her hands twisted together. “I know.” she said softly. “I know I need to work on that. But I can't just stop _trying_.”

“Nor should you,” Dana interjected.

Peter looked closely at Erica as she gave Dana a shy, thankful smile. He could read people himself, it was one of his great strengths, and he was starting to see that Erica wasn't _trying_ to be rude or difficult. She just _was_ at times. _Everyone's got their kinks._

He decided to change the subject. “So, Ray...” 

Erica's lips curved in a smile at the mention of Ray's name, and she clearly fought it back. A blush began to creep up her neck. “You told him about me being at the shop that morning.”

Peter blinked. _How did she put that one together?_ “Yeah, I did. Actually, I told him you'd come by a few times.”

Erica nodded, her hands now twisting together so much her skin was turning white. It was a brilliant contrast to the blush now covering her face. Peter didn't even think; he simply reached out and grabbed her hands. An electric tingle shot up his arm at the contact, and Erica froze, staring at him.

“You haven't stopped doing that since I came in. You're going to hurt yourself.” Her hands felt so small and fragile in his. He loosened his grip.

Erica took a deep breath and her hands relaxed. _Better._ “Ray told me what you said.”

_Wait, what? Oh, smooth move, Ray._

Erica was still talking. “It was stupid. I'm a grown woman and he's a grown man and there's no need to act like we're in high school. But...every time I see him I can't... _think_. I can barely form coherent words. It's like a constant panic attack. All I can do is watch. I don't _want_ to be the creepy girl who stares from across the street. You think I _like_ that? You think I get my kicks from it? That's not how you treat someone you want to take to dinner!” 

The agony and sincerity in her voice was almost painful to hear. Peter knew he was out of his depth. He'd been raised in a carnival, raised to be seen and heard and in control. If you wanted something, you went out and took it. Or at least made an effort. The concept of not being able to speak to someone made no sense to him. But he at least understood that there were things about women he would never get. This was one of them.

“I guess it's a good thing we're all going to the carnival, then,” Dana spoke up. “If you can't speak to him one on one, try a group.”

Erica twisted back to look at Dana, pulling her hands from Peter's grasp. “You didn't invite me on this trip as a fake date, did you?”

“No! No, of course not!” Dana shook her head. “I invited you because this was a terrible week and everyone needs a good day off.”

Peter didn't believe that for a moment, but Erica apparently did. She turned back to him. “It doesn't matter. Ray told me not to come by anymore. I haven't been back. I'm not about to screw this up any more than I already have.”

“Actually, Ray told you to come in next time you're in the area,” Dana corrected from the kitchen, where she was cleaning up from feeding Oscar. “At least, that's what he told me he said when I talked to him on Thursday. You should go by, now that you've got that gift for him.”

Erica put her face in her hands.

“What gift?” Peter asked.

There was another knock on the door.

“That's probably him.” Dana dried her hands on a towel and headed for the door. Erica turned white and began to stand up again, her hands moving to clasp together. Peter grabbed her wrist, pulling her down to the couch.

“ _What gift?_ ” he pushed.

Erica stared for a moment, then whispered: “I found a copy of Tobin's Spirit Guide, first edition. He said he lost his when the ghost destroyed the bookshop.”

Peter stared at her. _How did she find one? Ray is going to_ love _that!_ “All right. Trust me,” he said quietly. “Laugh.”

Erica stared.

Peter sighed and spoke loudly as Dana opened the door. “Did I ever tell you about the time Egon made a sonic gun that could explode soda cans at a hundred yards? You shoulda seen the mess I made at the warehouse on 69th Street.”

Erica burst into laughter. At first Peter thought she was forcing herself to laugh, but after a few seconds as she doubled over, he realized she'd actually found that funny. _It_ was _funny. I should tell her the rest of the story. Later._

A whole group trooped into the apartment. Peter's eyebrows lifted. He hadn't expected everyone to show up at once but there they were. Ray was hugging Dana hello, Winston was raising his hand to wave to Peter, and Egon was entirely focused on the PKE meter in his hand, running it up and down Ray's body.

“Egie, will you knock it off with that thing?” Ray asked, releasing Dana and putting a hand out. “I had a haunting in my shop this week, it makes perfect sense I'd still be...” his eyes fell on Erica, who was still recovering from her laughing fit, “...hot.”

“The energy readings have increased since we entered the apartment,” Egon replied, oblivious to Ray's shift in attention.

“Egon, you're seeing ghosts everywhere,” Winston said. “Put the PKE meter down and chill out for a day.”

“Ghosts _are_ everywhere,” Egon murmured, his face twisted in a disappointing frown as he put the PKE meter away. “Just not always in measurable quantities.”

Winston sighed and smiled, patting Egon on the shoulder, a move that earned him a glare from the older scientist. Winston then pushed past Ray, who was finally distracted enough to look away from Erica. “Erica, good to see you again!”

Erica took in a deep breath, pushed her hair out of her face and stood up, smiling. “Thanks. Nice to see you all too.” Her eyes flicked over each of them, not lingering on anyone. Her panic seemed to be completely gone. 

_Nice recovery._ Peter stood up too. “So, everyone ready to spend a day getting sick on funnel cakes and spinning rides?”

“As long as no one throws up on the Ferris Wheel, I'm good,” Winston grinned.

“Vomiting can and should be avoided but given the average age of a rider on the Ferris Wheel and the probability of their eating before riding, it's highly likely to be encountered.” Egon didn't even blink as he spoke.

“Well, that just got _me_ all excited to go, how about the rest of you?” Peter moved over to Ray, clapping him lightly on the back. Ray cringed from the impact and laughed slightly.

“I'll be a few minutes,” Dana said, walking towards the bedroom and throwing Peter a little, private smile. 

Peter grinned back and headed over to Oscar. He lifted the little boy out of the chair. “Gotta put you down for your after-breakfast nap!”

Oscar blinked at him, then suddenly turned away, stretching his arms out towards the pair at the door. “Ehee! Way!”

“Oh I see how it is,” Peter said, turning to face Ray. “Everyone shows up and suddenly I'm chopped liver!”

Ray's face lit up and he came over. “Are you demanding attention already?”

“ _Way_ ,” Oscar insisted.

Ray gently took Oscar from Peter, bouncing him slightly. “You're getting big! Fourteen months?”

Peter nodded.

“And six months since he was almost possessed by a class seven paranormal entity.” Egon walked over to eye the child. “Really, we need to get a sample of his brain tissue and his blood to find out if there are any lingering traces of...”

“ _No!_ ” Dana shouted from the bedroom. 

Peter opened the refrigerator and pulled out the milk. He spotted Erica, still standing in front of the couch, crossing her arms self-consciously in front of her bare midriff. Ray's eyes kept slipping to her. Peter hid a smile behind a swallow of milk. _Ray's finally noticed she's pretty. Today's going to be interesting._

“So he's not coming with us today?” Ray asked, indicating Oscar.

“I'm staying with him,” Peter put the carton of milk away, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and reaching out for Oscar. Ray handed him over. “We're gonna hang out, watch Laura Antonelli, practice base jumping from the fire escape, you know. Busy day.”

“You're not coming either?” Ray asked, disappointment spreading across his face and through his voice.

Peter shook his head. “Naw, I spent most of my life in carnivals, you know. Seen one, seen 'em all.” He kept his eyes on Oscar. He knew he was being transparent. He just hoped no one pressed him for more details. “Tell you what, you guys come home before dinner, we'll go to Jake's again. Have a better time.” He pasted a smile on his face.

“That sounds good to me,” Dana said, walking out of the bedroom and grabbing her handbag. “Shall we?”

Winston moved to open the door, letting Egon and Dana out. Ray gestured for Erica to follow them and turned to Peter, his eyes worried. “ _Are_ you all right?” he asked quietly.

Peter nodded, letting his mask slip just a little. “I'm all right,” he replied. “I just can't go. You understand.”

Ray frowned, then leaned closer to him. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“What?”

“I don't ever want to get into another plane.”

It took Peter a moment to realize what he meant but as the words sank in his gaze turned sad. Ray hadn't been on the plane that had crashed and killed his parents, but he hadn't needed to be. He did understand what Peter was going through, more than Peter thought he had. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Ray nodded and walked out, shutting the door. Peter's whole body slumped and shuddered and he sank onto the couch, looking down at the baby. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to change his mind, call Janine and have her come take care of Oscar while he followed them out to protect them. Oscar fussed a little, looking up into his eyes.

“I'm being ridiculous,” Peter said. “It's just a dream. Nothing's going to happen to them. And if I find out how my parents actually died, if I can, maybe this whole thing can stop. I just don't know why it's happening now.”

Oscar gurgled.

“Yeah, you don't know either.” Peter sighed. “Well, at least we're in the same boat.”

~*~

Erica couldn't help it; she stopped at the entrance to Brooklyn Bridge Park and just took in a huge breath of air. _Seven months here and I never even knew this place existed._ Central Park was in the center of Manhattan, pressed in on all sides by skyscrapers. But Brooklyn Bridge Park had the Bridge looming off to one side, protecting the wide open green spaces framed by dark blue water. The magnificent buildings that comprised Lower Manhattan sat across the East River, shimmering in the summer sunlight, and there was a tempting horizon to the south, where the water met the sky, signaling the Atlantic Ocean. A delicious shiver of relief ran through her and she found herself grinning wildly. _There is_ some _space here._

“You all right?”

Erica glanced over to see Ray looking at her. He was casual today, though the image was more due to his carriage than his clothes. He still had on the khakis, but his shirt was looser, white, with a navy blue jacket thrown over his shoulders. The wind had already ruffled his hair. He had a shy, almost nervous smile on his face. 

“I've been in this city seven months and I've never seen so much space,” she confessed. “Eugene's got so many trees and grassy areas, it's just nice to see them again. They line our streets back there.”

“”Oregon, right? Where you're from?”

“Yeah.” Erica grinned. She looked over his shoulder at the neon and pastel vista of the Duke Brothers Carnival. The white welcome banner stretched over the brightly-colored ticket booth had a silly caricature of two men, obviously brothers, grinning wildly and welcomingly at the people in line. Winston and Dana were in line already, getting their tickets. Egon stood off to the side, his PKE meter out but his stance so casual that no one even blinked at him. The sounds of the carnival, the silly synthesized music, the faint shout of the barkers, and even the occasional beep of a game, fought with the general sounds of New York City. Erica could also already smell the oil from the frying funnel cakes, and a little thrill of excitement shot through her. 

Ray had turned to see what she was staring at, and he looked back. She could see his eyes dancing with anticipation too. “I don't remember the last time I was at one of these!”

Erica nodded. “We had a state fair in Oregon that I went to a lot as a child but what you said back at dinner is true. You forget how much fun it is to just.....have fun. With bright lights and crazy sounds and games.” She looked at him, her heart racing, and swallowed nervously. Even though the ride down in the Ectomobile had been relaxed, she still had not actually spoken to him until now. She remembered their last conversation, full of tension, and realized she couldn't remember how it had ended. The last thing she recalled was him opening the door to his shop to let her out. She must have left, and she knew she hadn't seen him since. Peter's words pressed on her mind. As did Dana's. And with adrenaline pumping through her veins, she said suddenly: “Ray?”

“That's me.”

Erica chuckled nervously and looked at him. “I'm sorry.”

His brow furrowed. “For what?”

Erica swallowed hard. _Just do it._ “Tuesday. I...I came in to apologize for being rude the night before and you were so angry with me. I mean, you were totally justified in being mad, but I took the wrong meaning when you told me to leave. I thought you didn't want me to come back. Dana told me you...said it would be okay for me to come by.”

“Of course I am!” Ray laughed. “I'm not going to turn away a customer.”

_I didn't think she meant customer..._ Erica pressed her hands together, her fingers interlacing. Her eyes fell away from him.

Ray continued. “Erica, I told you to come back whenever you wanted, just not to stand across the street and stare. I said you had to come in and buy something or talk to me.”

“O-oh....” _I really did have it completely wrong._ “I just...I want you to know that I didn't come back this week not because I didn't want to but because I thought I shouldn't.” Her twisting fingers sent little shocks of pain through her arm but she couldn't stop.

“I see.” Ray went silent for a few moments, long enough that she looked at him. He was staring at her, his expression somewhere between relief and hope. “I'm glad we cleared that up,” he said. “I know I was a little short on Tuesday, but I think you can understand.”

Erica nodded. “Oh, for sure.”

Ray continued to look at her for a moment and then suddenly moved. Erica jumped, her hands yanking apart, and then Ray's hands grasped her wrists, his skin warm and a little rough. She felt an electric sensation explode through her and a wave of dizziness wobbled her knees. _Oh God don't fall!!_

“Why do you do that?” His voice was softer.

“Do what?” The touch was filling her head with white noise. His grip was strong and firm and she was longing way too much to have his arms wrapped around her, to feel his solid body against her.

“Your hands.” Ray gave her wrists a tiny shake and let go. The sudden chill on her skin shocked her brain. “You do it almost every time you talk. I thought you were going to break your fingers in my shop.”

“You could have put that on your insurance,” Erica deflected. _Come back._ “No, I....why do some people chew their hair or shuffle their feet? You've never had a nervous habit in your life?”

“Not one that causes bodily harm.”

Erica shrugged and wiggled her fingers in front of him. “I'm fine. See? Full range of motion.”

Ray smiled and Erica's heart melted. It was _the_ smile, the one she'd fallen for on the TV, the one she'd been dying to see again for months. It was a pure, warm smile that reached all the way up to his eyes and lit up his face. A light blush crept into his cheeks and her heart raced. She could feel her mouth pulling up into a pale imitation of that smile, a warm blush spreading into her cheeks, and a trembling sensation beginning to crawl through her. 

Ray leaned a little closer. “Erica?”

“Uh-huh?” His proximity made it hard to breathe.

“Stop apologizing.” His voice was firm, even though his eyes were still holding hers, that smile softly shining in them. “I know you aren't any kind of trouble. It's easy to tell when someone's being a jerk and you're not.”

Erica swallowed. “Okay.” There was more she wanted to say, but her brain wasn't forming words again. A buzzing sound suddenly filled her ears, followed by a faint sensation of something tickling her hair. Reflex took over and she jerked to the side, tearing her eyes from Ray, and was stunned to see Egon only a couple of inches away, holding the PKE meter towards her. His expression was puzzled.

“What are you doing, Egie?” Ray asked, a faint ribbon of annoyance in his voice.

“Both of you are hot,” Egon replied.

_Yes we are._ The thought rose unbidden in Erica's mind but she pushed it away. She had a feeling Egon didn't quite mean the twisting sensations in her abdomen or the slight blush she had seen on Ray's cheeks.

“Egon, again...” Ray sighed. “I had a haunting in my shop this week. It makes perfect sense I'd still be hot.”

Egon's lips pressed together. A small look of concern flickered across his face and the hand holding the PKE meter sank to his side. Erica looked nervously between the two of them. _What's wrong with what he said?_

“I was in his shop Tuesday morning,” she felt compelled to add. “If there was anything lingering, I probably picked it up.”

The look Egon gave her suggested what she was saying was not only impossible, but ridiculous. She looked away. _Stop trying to help._

“Ray! Egon!”

Winston's voice boomed out over the crowd. He and Dana were next to buy their tickets. 

Ray jerked a thumb in their direction. “I guess we better join them.”

Erica nodded and set off in their direction. Ray fell into step next to her. She looked back to check on Egon and her steps slowed. _He looks so uncomfortable. And worried._ “Egon! Come on!” she said. “We're _fine_!”

Egon reluctantly followed.

The group picked up their tickets and walked past the booth into the madness of sound and color. Right inside the entrance was a climbing wall, already covered with kids, and a carousel, spinning lazily, the painted animals rising and falling while the parents and kids on them hung on. The booth for buying ride tickets had a solid line in front of it, too.

Closer to the action, the howls of the carnival barkers were clearer, the joyous shrieks of the children louder, and the smells of the various foods stronger. It was a smorgasbord of temptation laid out, and Erica felt a curl of excitement start to clear her mind. _Where do we start?_

“Where do we start?” Winston asked.

The midway lay before them, a line of booths screaming excitement to the public. Cotton candy, funnel cakes, turkey legs, various sodas, and lemonade were right inside the entrance. On the other side sat the line of games, from the simple knocking over bottles with a ball to the almost sinfully satisfying Whac-a-Mole. Sharp cracks of popping balloons punctuated the air from the dart booth, and delighted squeals and splashes originated from farther down the midway where the summer water games were all gathered together. In the distance, a Ferris Wheel rotated slowly and the chairs from the swing ride flashed by from around a corner. As the group reached the end of the booth line, dodging people left and right, Erica saw another series of booths set off to the side, these filled with quieter activities like sand art, face painting, and caricature drawing, as well as a magician's tent and a small playground for the littlest ones. There was also a large sign that said: “COMING SOON: FORTUNE TELLER.” The space was large enough to hold a wagon, though Erica couldn't figure out if the sign meant there was a wagon coming or if there was already one and it just wasn't out this first day. Either way, she hoped it showed up. 

“What _don't_ they have here?” Ray asked. “It's like every child's dream.”

“Well, I admit, I'm glad Oscar isn't here,” Dana confessed. “It would be too much for him.”

“This is the first day they're open, too,” Winston added. “They'll probably shut down booths or move them around once they figure out what's drawing attention and what isn't. You'll probably be able to bring him later on in the week.”

“It'll take us _hours_ to get through everything,” Ray sighed.

“Well we don't have to _do_ everything!” Dana laughed. “How about we each go and do what we most want first? We can meet back here in an hour.”

“I'm in for that,” Winston agreed. “I'm gonna go show some of those kids what a real throwing arm looks like.”

Dana glanced over at the quieter booths. “I think Oscar would love to play in the sand.”

Erica looked back at the carnival but really, she only wanted one thing at the moment. “I want to see everything. I'm getting on the Ferris Wheel.”

“Ray and I will go inspect the magician's tent,” Egon said.

Dana grinned. “Egon, do you like magic?”

“I like _real_ magic,” Egon replied. “Sleight of hand, mysteriously obscured tables, and trick knots are less impressive.”

“You _believe_ in magic?” Erica asked, continuously surprised by the enigmatic scientist.

“We trap ghosts for a living,” Ray chuckled.

Egon chuckled slightly in agreement and Erica couldn't stop the smile on her face.

“Erica, you want to come with us?” Ray added. “We can go up on the Ferris Wheel next.”

He was inviting her along. Erica's heart skipped a beat, and she shot a look around at the masses of people, feeling the familiar claustrophobia of being in the large crowd. She looked at the line for the Ferris Wheel. It was still early in the day, the line was likely only going to get longer. Plus, the anticipation of seeing everything pressed hungrily on her chest. “If you're willing to give me a tour later, I'll go. I just...I really want to be up _there_ right now.” She pointed at the top of the Ferris Wheel and gave them a shy smile.

“All right,” Dana said decisively. “We'll meet back here in an hour.”


	6. The Ghost

**Chapter VI**

**The Ghost**

“Aw, come on!” Peter yelled at the TV. “Everyone knows the price of peanut butter is $2.19 a jar these days!”

Bob Barker agreed and the contestant slunk away, defeated. Peter sighed and picked up the remote, clicking rapidly through the channels as the commercials began to play. “You know, Oscar,” he said to the baby sleeping next to him, “I hope Dana finds you a good school. It's going to be important for you to know how much things cost when you take a girl out to dinner.” 

With a sigh, he put down the remote and hopped over to the kitchen, opening the fridge, open to the idea of a more adult beverage even though it wasn't even noon. To his chagrin, the six-pack he thought he'd put in there yesterday was gone. “Oscar?” he peeked over the top of the fridge. “Did you drink my beer?”

The baby didn't reply. 

Peter looked back in the fridge. “We need to go shopping. And figure out where the beer went.” He finally pulled out the milk and poured a glass before prowling around the kitchen, opening all the cupboards in a desperate search for the plate of cookies he knew Dana had baked that week. “Aw, don't tell me _those_ are gone too!”

~*~

Erica adjusted her handbag on her shoulder, pulling her ride ticket out of her pocket. She could feel the pressure of the world on her back and was more than ready to get up into the air, just get some breathing space. After this week of feeling like she wanted to hide from everything, to find out that Ray was all right with her presence had just made her feel like the biggest idiot in the world. _I thought he wanted nothing to do with me._ Apparently, _something_ had changed his mind. Or maybe...he really _had_ just forgiven her in the shop. _I need to clear my head and change my attitude._

“You okay with some company?”

Erica jumped, turning around to see Ray standing behind her, hands shoved in his pockets, a slightly guilty smile on his face. She regarded him, surprised for a moment, before replying. “I thought you were checking out the magician's tent!”

“We did.” Ray shrugged back towards the cluster of booths. Dana and Egon were standing by the sand art, deep in conversation with the carny that was running it. “Nothing earth-shaking in there.”

“That was fast.” Erica checked her watch. She hadn't been in line more than ten minutes. “Oh, well...maybe not...” How big had the tent been anyway? And if no one had been doing tricks, it would have been quick. “Um, sure. Groovy. Come on. Oh but...you need a ticket.”

Ray held a ticket up and Erica grinned. _It_ was _a fast look if he had to go buy some ride tickets and get back here. The tent must have been closed or something._

The carny waved them through and they settled in the wheelcar. The box only seated two, saving them the awkwardness of looking at another pair across the way, and not obstructing the view of the city. The safety bar settled across their laps and the little doors shut at their feet, enclosing them in the space. Their legs and arms brushed each other, causing little goosebumps to sprout along Erica's skin. _Stay calm._ She threw Ray a smile as the Ferris Wheel began to move.

~*~

“Oh, for sure, we want to serve kids of all ages,” the carny said to Dana. “We've got people watching them to make sure they don't eat the sand or start a fight with it. We have a sandbox over there if they want to actually play.” She pointed at the little playground a few yards away. The sun flashed on her nametag, distracting Dana from the playground. 'Sunny', the nametag read. It was a little too ironic. 

Dana looked over at the sandbox thoughtfully. “And the sand is colored by...”

“Food coloring.” Sunny grinned. “The Dukes make sure this place is 100% safe.”

“Are the Dukes involved in much of the goings-on here?” Egon asked.

Sunny laughed. “We come to them with suggestions and they take 'em or leave 'em. Sometimes one of 'em will walk around here to make sure everyone's happy. They're good bosses.” 

“So they _are_ available if a customer has questions or concerns?” Egon continued. Dana glanced at him, wondering where he was going with this.

Sunny looked a little worried. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no.” Egon shook his head. “Not at this time.”

Sunny relaxed, but Egon threw Dana a look she didn't expect. It read: _Help me?_

_All right._ “If we _did_ want to speak to them, how would we do so?” she pressed. “I don't mean to go over your head...”

“If you have any ideas for how the carnival can be improved or any concerns about safety, you can speak to one of us,” Sunny deflected. “But if you don't feel comfortable, you can ask for R or M Duke at the main entrance. One of them will be happy to come speak to you.” She frowned a little in concern. “Are you sure I can't help you?”

“No,” Dana chuckled. _Think fast._ “No, it's just....as a mother I want to know all the options before bringing my child to such a distracting place.”

“I understand,” Sunny smiled. 

“What does R or M stand for?” Egon spoke up again.

“I'm honestly not sure. I'm not really one to ask for the bosses' first names, and that was all they told us. I imagine they're not big on giving out first names either, but I don't know them all that well yet. They just took this place over a few months ago.”

Egon looked uncertain but Dana disagreed. _That's not suspicious_. It could take a bit for the name to trickle through the entire company. She hadn't even known Janosz Poha's first name until at least a month of working at the Manhattan Museum of Art, and he'd only told her, she suspected, as a way to establish a connection with her. She reached over and put a gentle hand on Egon's arm. “Thank you,” she said to Sunny. “You've really made me worry less.”

“Glad I could help!”

Dana tugged on Egon's arm. “Come on, let's go look at the playground.”

Egon followed, and Dana leaned over after a few steps. “What was _that_ all about?”

“There is an unusually high amount of residual PKE energy in this place.” Egon kept his voice low, trying to affect a casual tone. “I suspect there is at least one ghost here, and if there is we will need to speak to the Dukes about clearing this place to get rid of it.”

“So you want to talk to them now?”

“No.” Egon looked around. “No, I don't know enough yet. I'll speak to Ray about it later. However...” He turned back around and hurried back to Sunny. Dana hastily followed.

“You said the Dukes took over this place a few months ago?” Egon questioned.

Sunny didn't look surprised at their return. She smiled. “Yeah. Huge relief for us, too. The impresario of this place died suddenly and we've been changing hands for years. We were about to go under and the Dukes just showed up out of thin air and bought us. Saved a lot of livelihoods.”

“How did the impresario die?”

Sunny shrugged. “It was before my time. Something about a spooked horse. That's why we don't have any animal attractions anymore.”

Dana's heart slammed in her chest. _Spooked horse?_

“Did anything else change when the Dukes arrived?” Egon continued.

“Well, the name. We were King City Attractions back then. Operated mostly in the Corn Belt. Also we started including more games, this playground, the magician...this whole section back here is new.” Sunny tilted her head, looking Egon over carefully. “Are you a reporter or something?”

“He's just very curious,” Dana broke in. She grabbed Egon's arm again. “Come on, let's let the woman do her job.” _Please_ , her eyes begged.

Egon let her lead him away.

~*~

“Sure you don't want one?” Peter waved the cookie over Oscar's head, but the baby slept on. “Suit yourself.” He popped the treat in his mouth and chewed, focusing once again on the television. _Match Game_ was just starting and Peter pulled faces at the celebrities being announced on screen before shouting out his own takes on the questions. “Common sense, man, it's common sense! If a cannibal says the restaurant is great, he ate the chef, not the waitress!” 

The celebrities mostly agreed with him, the contestant did not. Peter sighed and looked back at Oscar. “Well that's the third person today to not take my advice. Maybe I'll just sleep for the rest of the day like you.”

Oscar rolled over and snored very quietly, a tiny sound that almost set Peter to giggles. _Oh wait until Dana hears this one!_ He reached over to adjust the blanket, and something thumped in the bedroom.

~*~

“Oh, my God,” Erica breathed.

The Ferris Wheel had stopped near the top of its run to let others on and off, and she twisted in her seat, trying to take in the entire view at once. The sounds of the carnival below faded into hissing wind and she could actually get tastes of the salt air from the nearby Atlantic Ocean. Below her, the carnival was a patchwork of neon colors, connected by lines of ants on the vivid green ground. The dark blue water of the East River rolled slowly in the wind, and the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges stood sharply outlined against the sky. Across the river, the silvery skyline of Lower Manhattan rose tall and proud. Squinting, Erica tried to see the Statue of Liberty on her perch on Liberty Island, but she just wasn't high enough. _Guess I'll have to make a stop by the Empire State Building before too long._

“It is really nice to get out of the city once in a while,” Ray agreed. “It gives you a little more perspective.”

“The city is so _close_ ,” Erica confessed. “I still feel claustrophobic sometimes.”

Ray nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. I've mostly thought of the city as a wool blanket. Itchy and irritating sometimes, but it's warm and toasty when the weather hits. I was born on Long Island, over...” he twisted and pointed “... _there_. And I grew up in Islip, which is completely invisible from here but really it's... “ he waved his hand in a general direction, “over _there_ , someplace. I took vacations out of New York but...I've been here all my life, and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.”

Erica smiled. “I think I can understand that. I wanted out of Eugene when I was young. I love it there. Lots of childhood memories. But I wanted to be right in the thick of everything. I wanted to be in Houston when Neil Armstrong landed on the moon. I wanted to be in Cape Canaveral when the Hubble went up. I wanted to be in Germany when the Berlin Wall came down. But...I don't really have that 'go get 'em' attitude journalists need, you know? So I went after the next best thing. If I can't be there to see history, I can at least preserve the mementos from it.”

Ray looked thoughtful. “I never really thought about archival work that way.”

Erica snorted. “Few do. But in all honesty, I never would have thought of trapping ghosts as a lucrative career either.”

Ray burst into laughter. “It's really not! But it does make studying them a lot easier!”

Erica saw the opportunity and her mouth dried out in sudden nervousness. She swallowed several times, reached over and grabbed her handbag, popping it open. “While we're on the subject of studying ghosts....” She withdrew Tobin's Spirit Guide and held it out to him. “You mentioned your copy was destroyed.”

Ray's mouth fell open and his eyes widened. A second later a wild smile of delight began to dawn on his face. “Where did you _get_ this?!” He took the book from her hands, staring down at it.

“I have this great-aunt back in Eugene,” Erica shrugged. “Muriel. She's the one who has the house that smells like your bookshop. I...asked for her help. She has a few friends who run bookshops like yours on the West Coast. I...look, like I said, I'm sorry for...being so...rude.”

Ray looked up at her, the happiness fading from his face, replaced with seriousness. “Erica, look. I know you're not any kind of trouble. Peter said you have a tendency to read people. So do I, and it's pretty easy to tell when someone's being a jerk and when someone's just not knowing what to say. You don't have to apologize anymore or try to buy my forgiveness. You've got it.”

Erica gasped and waved her hand. “I...really wasn't trying to buy your forgiveness. I would have given you the book no matter what happened. It was just sitting on some shelf somewhere in the back of someone's shop. You're a _Ghostbuster_. You have actual _need_ for it. Books are _meant_ to be read and needed and used. Sure, I'm still trying to apologize, but that book...deserves a better life than it had. And you deserve the help it'll give. That's all I meant by it.”

Ray softened, the smile returning. “Well, thank you. I mean really, thank you. And I mean, really, stop. Don't apologize anymore. You've apologized enough.”

“You're welcome. And...and okay.” Erica could feel herself warm with blush and she was pretty sure the adrenaline in her system was helping with her racing heart. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down, and looked back out over the vista.

~*~

“Hello?” Peter called. “Someone there?”

Oscar fussed, finally awakening, and Peter instantly picked him up, bobbing him gently, shushing him as quietly as possible. His heart rate picked up and he turned the volume down on the television, putting all of his energy into his ears. 

The apartment grew quiet and still. Peter's eyes flicked to the phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen, but he didn't make a move for it yet. 

Something thumped again. Peter tensed and Oscar yelped. Peter spun and put Oscar down on the couch whispering: “Stay here. Remember when the scary man had you on the table in the big museum and I took you away and told you to stay put? Same thing. _Stay here_.”

Oscar stared at him, eyes wide but full of comprehension. _Smart as his mom, no question._ Peter turned away and ran into the bedroom, hands in fists at his side.

He saw nothing out of the ordinary on first look. On the second, his blood ran cold.

There was a picture on the bed. Peter knew there hadn't been anything on the bed earlier; he'd walked by it to go to the bathroom an hour or so ago. But now....he walked over and looked down at it.

His parents smiled up at him from the little wooden frame.

Peter had enough time to feel the first stab of terror before Oscar began screaming.

~*~

Dana and Egon had met up with Winston, who was making the rounds of the carnival games. He had won a stuffed giraffe already, and was working on a big stuffed shark. “My niece loves sharks,” he'd explained almost sheepishly. “Do you think Oscar would like the giraffe?”

“I'll give it a try,” Dana had taken it off of his hands before watching him continue. He'd won the shark, and now the three of them were sampling the funnel cakes and lemonade. Dana was cringing a little from the sugar; Peter often made fun of her for eating junk food but in truth, she wasn't big on deep fried anything. She was silently thankful Winston had offered to share instead of getting her own. To her extreme surprise, Egon had already downed almost three-quarters of his own cake. _He must have the metabolism of a rat._

Of course, she knew she was probably having a tough time eating because of the awful feelings that had started racing through her. As soon as Sunny had revealed that the former impresario of the carnival had died by spooked horse, a sensation of dread that Dana had long since come to listen to had settled in the pit of her stomach. The name of the carnival, King City Attractions, didn't help. She couldn't remember the name of the carnival Peter had worked in, but she knew it had been in Missouri, Iowa, and Illinois – all parts of the Corn Belt of America. _No wonder Peter didn't want to come,_ she thought. _If this is the one he worked for...he didn't want any of us to come here because his parents died here._

It was completely possible that she was being ridiculous and the coincidences were just that. But her stomach was rolling over and it wasn't because of the funnel cake. _Maybe we should leave._

~*~

Peter sprinted back into the living room, his eyes going straight to the screaming child on the couch. Oscar was crying, his hands up as though warding something off, but there didn't seem to be anything around him. Peter moved for him, ready to pick him up and leave the apartment, and then the ghost appeared between them.

Peter stared. The translucent apparition didn't seem to be doing anything to hurt the child. Rather, the soulless eyes were locked on him, and the hate in them was palpable.

Peter's throat was dry from terror, but he still licked his lips and spoke. “No offense but I'm going to need to see your babysitting credentials.”

The ghost floated in silence. Peter had heard enough of Ray and Egon's categorizations to piece together what he was looking at. _Full-torso apparition. Class IV._ The figure had a face and clothes and Peter wasn't too sure but there might have been a ring on one of its fingers. He didn't know too much about history to recognize the outfit but it was definitely a uniform with fringed shoulderpads, cuffs, two rows of buttons, and a belt. The coat was long and almost blended into the pants, which faded away into nothing. The ghost himself was grey, which removed color from the equation, but Peter was pretty sure he'd seen the uniform before. Somewhere.

Oscar's sobbing was quieting down as he began to notice the scary ghost wasn't coming after him. Peter was desperately trying to remember where he'd hidden the trap and wondering how he was going to get to it without ticking the ghost off.

“You killed me.”

Gozer's voice had been scratchy and Vigo's voice had been resonant. But this voice sounded young, Southern, and like it had a bad case of laryngitis. The power behind the words was stronger than the words themselves, and Peter felt the impact in his chest and ears. He took a step back, his equilibrium shaken, and had to swallow. “I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “That thing in college was an accident and the guy woke up the next morning. He couldn't remember his name for a few hours but it was no big deal.” His eyes slid to the bedroom. _I think the trap's in the closet._

The ghost suddenly appeared between him and the door to the bedroom. It was much closer now, and Peter could smell something old and dry and electric coming off of it. His nose wrinkled and he backed quickly up towards the couch, planting himself squarely between the ghost and Oscar. _Okay. That plan's out the window. Next?_

“You killed me, you little coot,” the ghost repeated. “The war was over, but that weren't worth a goober to ya, was it?”

Peter blinked. _What is he saying?_

The ghost began to float towards him and Peter backed up farther. His calves hit the couch. _This is bad._ “Hey now, if you want to sit and talk about your feelings, I'll just put the baby down for a nap and we can have it out...”

“You killed me!” the ghost said a third time, still coming towards him. “I owe you. I owe your family and I ain't gonna stop 'til I've got you all done to a turn.”

_Oh, sh..._ Peter spun to grab Oscar and dive out of the way, but instead he felt something electric and cold hit his back. Oscar slipped from his hands and Peter fell, bouncing off of the couch and hitting the floor. 

Everything went black.

For a few agonizing moments, he floated in nothingness. The concept that he was in terrible danger floated with him, but he could not act on it. His body seemed to be a separate entity from him, as though he was looking at it from outside himself. And yet he could feel something inside him, something he didn't want. It was digging, like a squirrel. He tried to expel it, to flex a muscle in his brain that would shove it out, but it did no good.

Then, he opened his eyes.

Dana's apartment was gone. Instead there was the smell of funnel cake, the brightness of the tents, and the neighing of horses. 

“I owe your _family_ ,” the ghost said, somewhere in his mind.

Peter opened his mouth and started to scream.

~*~

Winston was doing his darndest to convince Egon to try the climbing wall, and the older scientist was having none of it. Dana had a feeling Winston would have better luck with Ray once he got back from the Ferris Wheel with Erica. She gave herself a silent pat on the back. It had been her idea to send Ray after Erica when the woman had gone off alone. She wasn't much of a matchmaker, but there were times when she had wished someone had given her a little push here or there. _Hopefully, they're a little clearer on where they stand with each other now._ She supposed she'd know when they came back.

It happened all at once. The gnawing fear in the pit of her stomach exploded through her body in a wave of panic. A second wave followed, this one of dizziness and nausea. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the ground. She began to gasp, feeling as though something was clenching her throat, and a ringing sensation filled her ears. She could see Egon and Winston's shoes running to her, could see their mouths moving as they spoke. Egon's eyes were wide and concerned, even bordering on frightened. She could see the words his lips were forming. “Dana? Are you all right? What's wrong? What's happening, Dana?”

She didn't know. And yet, she did. “Oscar,” she gasped. “ _Peter_.”

~*~

The safety bar of the Ferris Wheel lifted, and Erica stood up, awkwardly maneuvering out of the wheelcar. Ray put a hand out to help her step smoothly to the ground and she, with a deep breath, intentionally left her hand loosely holding his. Once the two of them had moved away from the crowded line, Ray let go. Erica pulled her own hand back, trying to suppress the disappointment rushing through her. Of course, in the movies, the couple always kissed on the Ferris Wheel, and when Ray had shown up, well...well she'd dreamed a little, nothing wrong with that. But of course, they weren't that kind of couple. _Yet._

Oh, what hope that little word had.

“Ray! Erica!”

The cry broke her out of her thoughts and she looked up to see Winston, Egon, and Dana running towards them. Erica felt her stomach turn cold. Dana looked like...well, like she'd seen a ghost. Her aristocratic features were wrinkled in fear and her eyes shot off sparks of panic.

“We're leaving,” Winston said.

“We have to get home,” Dana said, her voice thin and terrified. “Something's wrong.”

~*~

Frank, the super, banged on the door to Dana's apartment. The only responses were the sounds of a crying baby and a screaming man.

~*~

A crowd was gathering in front of the apartment building on East 77th St. The traffic on the street crawled along behind them. A large truck carrying an old gypsy wagon with the words “FORTUNE TELLER” on its sides chugged slowly along, the driver pausing to look at the large group of people. A loud honking startled him and he slammed on the brakes as the Ectomobile howled to a stop right in front of him. “Holy shit, the Ghostbusters!” he murmured, watching as the famous men leaped out of the car. Funny, he'd thought there were four of them, all men, no women. But there they went into the building and here came the cops in his rear view mirror.

“Damn.” The driver turned back to guiding his truck carefully down the jammed street, figuring he'd hear about the bust on the news later.

~*~

Dana prided herself on being composed and strong in public when things went awry. Really, she prided herself on being composed in general. But standing in front of the elevator of her apartment building, waiting for the doors to open, the terror shrieking through her veins was more than she had ever known in her life. Though her makeup remained in place thanks to waterproof mascara, silent tears streaked her cheeks. Winston stood near her, a hand resting softly on her shoulder. Egon already had the PKE meter out. “There definitely something here,” he was saying. “If it's in Dana's apartment, we'll need to go straight to the bedroom. Peter said he keeps a trap there.”

The elevator arrived and they piled in, the doors closing just as the police reached them. The ride up was one of the longest of Dana's life, but when the doors opened she knew they had made the right decision. She could hear Peter's screams and shoved her way past Egon and Ray. Ignoring the shouts of: “Dana, wait!” and “Watch out!” she ran full tilt down the hallway. She managed to get the key in the door and wrenched it open, staggering into the apartment.

Oscar was sitting on the floor crying his lungs out and shaking Peter's arm as though trying to wake him up. Peter was flat on his back like an effigy, the veins and cords on his neck sticking out as he screamed with the full power of his lungs. Dana almost vomited from the horror of the situation, the intensity of it increasing as she realized that Peter wasn't just screaming, but crying, tears pouring out of his open eyes, sobs shaking his entire body. The sounds coming from him were also breaking in and out and she realized he'd been screaming long enough to be going hoarse. _Peter, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm sorry!_

“The PKE readings are off the scale!” Egon yelled.

“Where's the ghost?” Winston shouted. 

“I don't know!” Egon looked over and his face paled. “Peter? Peter?” His voice turned pleading. “Peter, can you hear me? _Peter?_ ” His voice cracked, a frantic note cutting into it. Dana had never heard Egon panicking and she never wanted to hear it again. She looked over at Ray and saw him frozen in place, staring in horror at Peter. Winston dove for the bedroom, hunting down the trap.

And then, suddenly, Peter stopped screaming. His body convulsed.

“ _Peter?_ ” Egon gasped, moving to grab him. Ray dove in, helping him roll the seizing man to the side. Saliva foamed around the corners of Peter's mouth, dripping to the floor, and then something grey and formless shot out of his body. A strange, keening howl filled the room, and the shadow shot through the window, exploding it outward, raining glass down on the crowd below.

Silence.


	7. The Answers, Part One

**Chapter VII**

**The Answers, Part I**

Janine lay Oscar gently on Peter's bed in the sleeping quarters, convinced the little one would sleep more peacefully surrounded by the scent of a man he knew. She wasn't used to child-rearing and had no idea if her instincts were right, but she really didn't know what else to do. She piled pillows around the whole bed in case he rolled off, and finally walked back into the main living area, looking at the people gathered.

The group had come sprinting in, carrying a wave of terrified energy that had almost made Janine sick. She immediately switched all calls to the answering machine and followed them upstairs. Oscar had been screeching and Peter had been still, dried saliva on his mouth, the occasional twitch shooting through his limbs. Egon, Winston, and Ray had put him on a bed and dragged him out to the laboratory, where Egon had swiftly started applying leads to his flushed, sweating skin. Dana and a girl Janine didn't know huddled together, both trying to soothe the sobbing baby. When Janine had asked what happened, the girl said that Peter had been screaming loud enough that they could hear him down the hall, but when they'd gotten there he'd fallen unconscious. Janine had watched in silent horror as the Ghostbusters rallied around their fallen, trying to wake him up or get any sense of what was happening to him.

That had been almost three hours ago.

Now, Ray and the unfamiliar girl (whose name, Janine had picked up, was Erica), were seated on the couch, surrounded by piles of books, nose-deep in research. Winston had just gone to pick up some takeout. The parrot, settled in its cage downstairs, was mostly silent, occasionally asking: “Dipshit?” and replying: “Ghostbusters!” Dana sat by Peter's bed in the lab, holding his hand. Egon was standing by the monitors, staring at them, hands hanging limply at his sides. Janine's heart pounded slightly in her chest, and her throat closed. She knew that stance. Egon felt lost. 

Her eyes slipped to Peter on the bed and she had to swallow several times to push down her own panic. Who knew Peter Venkman could be so still, so silent? He bubbled with life most of the time, eyes dancing, feet tapping, fingers snapping. Janine had always thought him tied into whatever life force powered the world, constantly drawing energy from everyone around him, skating through life on his own supernatural ability. Seeing him like this was bizarre, unreal, and terrifying.

“He's alive,” Egon said, his voice hollow and heavy. “His EEG indicates REM sleep, but his cortisol and norepinephrine levels are consistent with one who has experienced massive trauma. He also has a high fever.”

“He's having a nightmare,” Dana said.

“Given the consistency of these readings,” Egon replied, “I think he has been having one since shortly after we left to go to the carnival. Which means he has been in REM sleep for considerably longer than the average sleep cycle.”

“Is that dangerous?”

Egon blinked, swallowed, and continued. “Peter's body is flooded with residual PKE energy. I believe he was possessed, and this is a side effect of that possession.”

“Is he still...possessed, I mean?” Dana whispered, horrified.

“I don't believe so,” Egon said softly. “But I am not sure he can wake up, either. I just...don't...know.” The words were agony for him to say.

Dana turned back to Peter, leaned over him and kissed him gently. Egon turned abruptly and walked towards the kitchen. Janine felt something cold against her side and realized she had slumped against the doorframe and was now clutching it to hold herself up. She forced herself to stand upright and dusted herself off, then walked towards the kitchen as well.

She glanced at Ray and Erica as she passed by them. Ray's hands were shaking and his breathing was slightly erratic. Erica was still, reading, absently pulling on a lock of hair that had fallen over her shoulder. Janine watched Erica for a moment, not knowing who this new person was and wondering just what kind of an effect she was having on Janine's boys. Could she be responsible for Peter's silence? Likely not; no one was demanding information from her or treating her like she was hostile. _I guess she's all right for now._ Janine pursed her lips and looked at Egon in the kitchen.

He was gulping a can of Tab, his head thrown back, his hand clutching the counter so tightly the knuckles were white. He suddenly stopped drinking and coughed, blindly reaching for a rag. Janine quickly grabbed one and put it in his waving hand. Egon wiped himself and the counter clean, sniffing and wiping his eyes from the effects of the carbonation. Janine stared at him, looking over the tension in his body. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see the girl reach out and touch Ray's hand. Ray looked up at her, his own face puckered in worry. She said something quiet and some of the lines eased, but as the two of them went back to reading Janine could see that the effect was temporary.

_All right._

“Egon?” she asked quietly.

Egon turned to look at her. “Yes?”

As per usual, her breath caught at the intense gaze. She swallowed and then reached out to take his hand. “Come with me.”

He followed her without a word, and Janine was acutely aware of every step she took towards the bedroom. She knew what this looked like and she didn't care. She hesitated only slightly as she passed Ray again, wondering if she would be able to corral both of them, and then decided against it. She moved on.

When they reached the sleeping quarters, Janine led Egon to his bed and then let go of him. She pointed at it and said: “Lie down.”

Egon stared at her. “What are you doing, Janine?”

Her name. Damn it, she hated when he said her name. It brought up far too many memories and stirred up feelings that she still didn't know how to deal with. It wasn't that she was unfamiliar with love. It was just that she felt so terribly guilty about the process in which she had fallen in love. Shouldn't the process be something pure and free of selfishness? Shouldn't it be about something other than superiority and guidance?

She looked at him sternly. “You need to lie down. Your brain's not working right. Doctor Venkman's unconscious and you're scared to death and you need to just take a moment and process.”

Egon shook his head. “I don't have time. I have to monitor Peter's readings.”

Janine snatched his arm as he began to walk away. “No, you don't. I've spent enough time around here to know that when there's a problem, there's some kind of beep or alarm or bell. You need to stop just for a minute.”

“I can't,” Egon murmured.

“You can and you will,” Janine said firmly. “Don't make me make you lie down.”

Egon glared at her and then slowly lay down on the bed. Janine sat on the bed next to him and stared at Oscar, watching him sleep. She watched Dana through the door, holding Peter's hand, kissing him softly, murmuring things Janine couldn't hear. She saw Ray's and Erica's heads moving on the couch as they interacted with each other. The hum of the air conditioner began to fill the room, but the quiet seeped into Janine's mind as well. She could hear Egon's breathing slowing, evening out. He wasn't falling asleep and neither was she. But what was happening all around them was beginning to sink in, and she wanted to make sure she was there when it did.

_Does it matter,_ she thought suddenly _,_ how _something happens? Isn't it more important that it_ did _? I just wanted to be the one Egon thought about when he thought about beautiful things and feelings. I wanted to be important to him. I didn't need to be_ in _his life, I just wanted to make him_ aware _of more than his fungus collection and numbers and catching ghosts..._

_And the more I showed him, the more I fell in love with him._

That was the roadblock. That was what she couldn't get around and what she had tried to spend years dealing with. It wasn't that she denied it. It was simply that she couldn't believe she'd actually found someone she didn't ever want to stop teaching. Or learning from.

But now, so many years later, so many fights later, she was starting to get tired of herself. She was getting tired of dealing with it, of refusing to accept that no matter whose lips she kissed, there was only one face behind her closed eyelids.

“Janine?”

Janine opened her eyes, unaware that she had closed them. She looked down to see Egon looking back at her from the bed. His face was serious but soft. 

“What?” she said softly.

“I don't know how to help Peter.”

Janine turned to face him, resettling herself on the bed. “That's okay.”

Egon frowned. “How can that be okay?”

“Because not everyone has all the answers.” Janine didn't quite know where this was coming from but she stuck with it. “He's, oh what's that word I read in that book....patient zero. He's Patient Zero. Before you come up with a way to help him, you can't know what you're doing because you've never seen it before. That's not your fault. That's not anybody's fault. When you're seeing something or feeling something you've never seen or felt before, it's normal to not have any idea how to react to it. There's nothing wrong with that.” Who was she talking to now?

“He's my friend.”

_Egon was my boyfriend._ “I know.”

“He was screaming.”

_He looked like I hit him that day._ “I know.”

“I don't think he's going to wake up.”

_I don't deserve him back._ “I know.”

“But I can't just do nothing.”

_But I want him back._ “I know.”

Egon was staring at her. He suddenly sat up, coming to a stop inches from her face. Janine gasped softly but didn't move.

“Janine?”

“Yes?”

“Why Louis?”

The words hit her like a punch to the stomach. She would have given anything to have the courage simply to kiss him, push him down on the bed, make him forget the question. But even if she had done it, she knew Egon Spengler. He wouldn't let it go. Not until she gave him an answer. So she gave him the most honest one, the most haunting one. “Because he's everything you aren't. And I can be everything I can't be with you.”

She knew what she meant by it, and she knew he wouldn't understand. So when he got up off of the bed and left the room, she waited until he was on the other side of the Firehouse before she let herself cry.

~*~

Egon heard the alarm start only a moment before Peter's voice tore through the air. “Ray! Dana! No! Help! _Help me!_ ”

He spun around from the computer in time to see Peter's arm flail through the air and entangle itself in the wires stemming from his body. A frantic twist, and some of the monitors went blank. One lead ripped free. Egon swore and dove for his friend, trying to grab an arm to hold him down. “Help!” he added his shout to Peter's. “Peter? Peter, can you hear me?”

“Help!” Peter shouted again. “Mom!”

Egon's eyes widened. He knew Peter had started suffering from nightmares in the past couple of weeks, but he had never experienced his friend in the grip of one firsthand. The pain and agony in his voice was palpable. Peter was being tortured. Peter, who was barely ever affected by anything, was screaming in terror. Egon's mouth and throat went dry and his stomach twisted. He swallowed frantically. _He's being tortured by the ghost,_ he thought _. What_ is _this creature?_

Ray and Winston came sprinting over from the dining room, Ray still holding his chopsticks from the Chinese food they'd been eating. The chopsticks slipped from his fingers and clattered on the floor. Ray reached for Peter, trying to free a trapped arm. The monitors flashed, more alarms going off as they continued to lose feeds, and Oscar screamed angrily from the other room. Janine brought him out and Dana, on the verge of tears, took the squalling child, trying to shush him. She backed away from the bed.

As the three men wrestled with their friend, Egon took a swift assessment of the situation. Peter was moving and vocal. His skin was hot and slick with sweat, his hair soaked to his forehead, and his eyes were glassy, the pupils dilated. But he just wasn't conscious. His body was trying to wake up and his mind was still being held in the grip of whatever....

Idea and execution happened almost simultaneously. Egon pulled back and slapped Peter once, twice, across the face. 

The screams stopped. Peter blinked, his pupils contracting. He stared at Egon, emptily at first, and then with slow recognition. It took most of Egon's self-control not to embrace his friend as he watched him climb to consciousness. He let out a deep, shuddering breath, and let go of Peter.

“Wh-what....?” Peter's voice was smaller, rougher. He immediately began to cough. Egon turned to order someone to get him water but he saw Janine already on it, filling a glass. She ran it over and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed and Egon felt a stab of very real pain in his chest. Janine continued to stare at him for a moment after letting go of the glass and Egon turned away. As far as he was concerned, there was no further need for words between them. _I am inadequate. We are finished._

Peter took the glass of water and gulped it. Halfway through, he stopped with a deep gasp, and started to twist back and forth. “Get these things off of me.”

“We need to monitor you,” Egon replied. “You've been unconscious...”

“I've been fighting for my life and your life and everyone else's life and my sanity for _days_. Take them off _now!_ ” Peter shouted before slipping into another coughing fit.

Erica came around the side of the bed and began quickly removing the leads. Ray followed her, shutting off each monitor as the lead came free. Dana, now bouncing the crying Oscar on her hip, came back to the bedside. Peter, regaining his breath, looked up at them and reached for Dana, touching her arm. A look passed between them and then Peter touched Oscar, who quieted almost immediately. Dana held him out and Peter took him, staring intensely into his eyes. Oscar reached up to pet his face, and then closed his eyes.

Janine returned, staggering up the stairs with the parrot. She thunked the cage down next to Peter. The parrot didn't make a sound, just roused and wagged its tail, as though sighing in relief.

“How long was I out?” Peter asked in a quieter, calmer voice.

“You were unconscious for approximately four hours,” Egon filled him in. “During that time, you ran an alarmingly high fever, and your brain waves maintained REM sleep.”

“Now that's four hours from when we found you,” Ray chimed in. “There's no telling how much longer you were...” His voice shook on the last word and he stopped talking. Erica placed a hand on his arm.

“What do you remember?” Dana asked, her voice surprisingly steady. Her fingers were absently combing Peter's hair.

Peter continued staring at Oscar. “The nightmare.”

“What about before then?” Egon asked. “Your body contains large quantities of residual PKE energy. You definitely had some sort of an encounter with a ghost or ghost-related object.”

Peter took in a deep breath and wiped his face. It did little good; his skin was soaked. Egon shot a look to Janine again. “Will you get him a towel, please?”

Janine took off without a word. Egon turned back to Peter, who shrugged.

“I was playing Freeze Tag with a ghost in the apartment. I lost.”

Ray laughed. It was a nervous laugh, a single: “Ha!” that was more releasing anxiety than anything else. Erica smiled slightly at it. 

“What can you tell us about the ghost?” Egon pressed, frustration creeping into his voice. He knew Peter had just come from a violent experience. He knew he was shaken up. But if they didn't get answers soon, there was no telling if the ghost would come back and pick up where it left off. They needed information while it was fresh, and Peter was already trying to brush things off.

Janine returned with the towel and Dana took it, starting to wipe Peter's face. Peter turned his head to her, ignoring Egon. Dana's face drew into a worried frown. “We don't have to do this now,” she said.

“No, we _do_ ,” Egon argued. “We have no way of knowing what is causing these attacks, we have no idea where in the city is safe, if at all, and we have no way of knowing if that ghost is going to return at any moment. We need information and Peter's experience is the best we have.” Was he the only person that understood this? “Peter, what can you tell us about the ghost?”

Peter didn't look at him. Egon felt his hand balling into a fist. He took a deep breath and relaxed his fingers. _Try another question._ “What did it look like?” he asked.

“It was a guy,” Peter muttered. “He had on some kind of uniform. He didn't have any legs, and he talked. Sounded like he was from Texas or Georgia. Had a curly mustache like those evil villains in the movies.”

“You saw _details_?” Ray asked, cautious wonder creeping into his voice. “That's a class-four full-torso possessor at least! And if it hit us at the bookshop and Peter at home, that means it could be free-roaming!”

_There's no proof that the ghost at the bookshop is the same as the ghost in the apartment_ , Egon thought, _but we have no answers either way. Let's rule something out._ “Ray, do you remember how long it was between the start of the attack and Peter's arrival at the bookshop?”

Ray's eyebrows drew together. “Um...fifteen, twenty seconds?”

That wasn't comforting. “So he was near the bookshop.”

“I was,” Peter confirmed. “I saw something in the window. It turned out to be Janine's legs.” He tried to give her a charming smile, but it came out as a grimace. The intent was enough, and Janine rolled her eyes. Peter continued. “But I didn't see anything when I got inside. The guy wasn't there.”

_This was supposed to be ruled out._ Egon swallowed. “We had considered the idea that this was a personal attack on Ray and his bookshop, but is it possible that this ghost was attempting to attack _Peter_ but couldn't reach him until he got into the store?”

“If it's free-roaming, it wouldn't matter if he was in the store or not,” Winston chimed in.

“We don't know if it is free-roaming,” Egon replied. “Raymond was only theorizing.”

“It didn't attack me in the store,” Peter added. “Its focus was on Janine.”

“It didn't attack Janine until I told her to get the trap,” Ray said. “It knew what we were going to do. The first thing it did was attack the bookshelves. It was like a bomb had gone off. The books just came down on me.”

Egon's eyebrows lifted. “ _On_ you?”

Ray's eyes widened. “I hadn't even thought about that, but yeah. The first shelf to go was the one next to me. I thought I'd bumped something.”

“Did the attack get worse when Peter got into the store?”

“No.”

“So perhaps the first attack was directed at you, and the second one was at Peter.” Egon didn't like where this was going at all but he forced himself to say the words aloud. “I think it's clear that we are being targeted, since we haven't heard of any other attacks like this over the past week.” _But we still don't know if it's the same ghost._

“Well, _that's_ comforting,” Winston muttered. 

Egon nodded in agreement and turned back to Peter. “What else can you tell us? You said he sounded as though he was from Texas or Georgia. Did he speak to you?”

Peter took another deep breath and shifted on the bed. Oscar rolled around a little on his lap and cooed in his sleep. Peter gestured for Dana to take the baby. “Yeah, we had a lovely chat. He called me a couple of names, I told him that story about the guy in college, and then he came at me.”

“He called you _names_?” Ray asked. The last word came out as an incredulous chuckle.

“Yeah. Little coot. Which is completely unnecessary. I don't even know the guy.”

“He called me a fast trick,” Janine spoke up, bringing several pairs of surprised eyes to her. “Right before he picked me up, I heard some Southern voice sayin' 'outta my way, ya fast trick.' I'm not too sure what that means but I don't think I like it.“

Egon's stomach rolled again. A few seconds of silence filled the room before Ray murmured: “So it _could_ be the same ghost. A class-four free-roaming possessor that's made _us_ its target. That's bad.”

“Why would it wait, though?” Winston asked. “We're not on watch twenty-four hours a day. I haven't had anything happen to me and I'm assuming Dana and Egon haven't either.”

Peter looked worriedly at Dana, but she shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Nothing's happened to me, either,” Egon agreed. 

“I can understand waiting between attacks,” Winston continued, “but almost a week? There's a reason it's only hit us twice.”

“ _Could_ it be anchored?” Ray asked after a moment. “Winston's right. Most ghosts we know aren't shy about saying hello, and this one not only tried to drop a shelf of books on my head, but it just spent the last few hours...or days...torturing Peter. This ghost means business. It's not a slimer, it's not a cat. It's strong, and it's powerful, and it wants to hurt us. So why wait? Why isn't it blowing up the Firehouse?” He looked at Peter. “Pete, how long have you been having those nightmares?”

Peter cringed. “A week. Maybe a little longer.”

“And it's the same dream every night?”

“Yeah.”

“What happens?'

Peter stared, his gaze growing hard. “It's a nightmare, Ray,” he said. “Just a normal nightmare.”

“You spoke,” Egon pushed. “You were calling for help. The death of your parents is not a secret to us.” Peter whirled on him, eyes blazing, but Egon didn't stop. “I understand it was a traumatic experience. Losing a loved one is considered one of the greatest pains we have to endure as humans. But the ghost chose _that_ memory, _that_ nightmare, to torture you. It's possible he's been doing it this whole time, and if he has, that means there's something in that nightmare that will give us as clue as to why this is happening.”

“Egon,” Peter's voice was low, “if you don't stop talking, I am going to hit you.”

Egon felt an explosion of rage in his chest. _Damn it, Peter!_ He leaned in, his gaze just as hard, just as challenging as Peter's. “Then _hit_ me,” he said in a low, tight voice. “If that's what it takes to get answers. _We are being targeted_. It's not the city at risk, yet. It's _us_. We have a chance to stop this ghost before it does anything else. So go on and hit me. _What is the nightmare about?_ ”

He could see Peter's fist out of the corner of his eye and braced himself for the impact. Peter's jaw clenched and his teeth bared for a moment. The look in his eyes went from rage to something far less familiar: fear. Egon felt his own gaze soften just a little at the change, and he leaned back from Peter, giving the man a little more space.

“Don't ask me for details,” Peter said, his voice just above a whisper. His body strained on the bed; he was literally having to push the words out. “Yeah, it's my parents dying. More recently, it's been all of you. Before the ghost attacked me, he said he owed my family. He said I killed him and that he owed my family.”

“But you didn't recognize him,” Egon asked, his voice gentler now.

“Well, it wasn't Michael J. Fox,” Peter snapped.

“Peter,” Erica spoke up, “you said he was wearing a uniform. Can you describe the uniform?”

Peter paused. “Old. The kind you see in history books old. One of those big coats that goes past the waist. Belt on the coat. Two rows of buttons. Collar up on the neck. I couldn't see any pants, but it looked like he had a gun strapped on his back and this weird handle thing on his belt.”

Erica tilted her head. “Handle?”

“Yeah, you know, like something you grab....” Peter's eyes widened. “A hilt. It might have been a hilt.”

“Of a rapier?”

“I don't know,” Peter waved his hand. “It looked like a hilt or the handle of something you stab someone with!”

Ray had focused on Erica. “What are you thinking?”

Erica swallowed and shrugged. “Well, a Southern man dressed in a uniform with a gun and maybe a sword, using phrases like little coot and fast trick...it sounds like the ghost is from the 1800s. Maybe even the Civil War.”

Peter pushed himself up suddenly. “He said the war was over but that wasn't worth a....something weird. Booger or something.”

“Goober?”

“Or something.”

Erica nodded. “Popular saying. 'Worth a goober' meant something that amounted to a lot, so if something _wasn't_ worth a goober it meant you didn't care. And 'little coot', 'blue-belly', and of course 'Billy Yank' were all Confederate terms for Union soldiers.”

Peter blinked at her. “Aren't you the _space_ historian?”

Erica smiled. “I like _history_. Space is where I make my money.”

“What's a fast trick?” Janine asked. “How much do I want to hurt this ghost?”

Erica blushed. “Um...the term 'trick' is still in use today, really, with a similar meaning. But back then a 'fast trick' was a...morally questionable woman. You know, um....a loose woman.”

A dark and bitter thought arose in Egon's mind. Janine's face reddened now, her jaw clenching. Hurt and anger battled across her eyes, and Egon had a feeling he was the only one who knew why that phrase hit her so hard. The dark and bitter thought faded, compassion replacing it. _That kind of thinking is unfair of me._

“Well,” Janine hissed, “I'd say bust him.”

“I completely agree!” Peter stated.

“So we have the ticked-off ghost of a Confederate soldier loose in New York City. Yeah, _this_ is going to end well,” Winston grumbled.

“Can you think of any reason why a Confederate soldier would have a personal vendetta against _you_ , Peter?” Relief stole through Egon. He was getting the information he needed. But there was still something outstanding, something he wasn't getting yet. He could feel it.

“Well there was that whole thing he said about me killing him. And look guys, I know there's things you don't know about me, but I can promise you I'm not a murderer.”

“I don't think we'll have any trouble believing that,” Dana chuckled.

“How about you, Raymond?”

Ray shrugged. “Doubtful. My grandparents were Swiss. They came over in the 1900s, well after the Civil War.”

“Well, the ghost did say he owed Peter's family,” Erica said. “Family's not always blood relatives. Peter said he hasn't been dreaming about just his parents. Maybe Ray's shop was destroyed because he and Peter are good friends.”

A heavy silence settled over the room as the idea sunk in. “Now _that_ ,” Peter said, his voice growing hard with rage, “is not okay.” 

Egon didn't think he'd ever heard Peter's voice sound so dangerous. Even when Walter Peck had been stripping them down in front of the police and the mayor, Peter had kept calm and cracked several, albeit inappropriate, jokes. The low, furious rumble in his voice now made Egon cold. 

“That still doesn't explain why the ghost hasn't hit us more,” Winston said. “If it's after all of us because of Peter, there's still been far too many opportunities for it to hit us. It's _got_ to be anchored, because it's only attacking at certain times and certain places.”

“But anchored to _what_?” Ray asked. “I mean, I guess Peter's bought a couple of books from me, but it's been weeks...but if those are the only two places we've seen attacks, then there's clearly an object or something at both.”

“Unless it's Peter,” Egon mused. He'd been mulling over the idea and, like so many other thoughts going through his mind right now, he didn't like where it was going. But they needed answers. “We've already proven that Dana has a genetic predisposition towards paranormal attraction.”

“Yes, and that makes me feel _so_ much better about my life,” Dana muttered.

“It's possible that Peter has it as well,” Egon concluded.

“There's no way,” Peter objected, his voice still filled with anger. “I've barely had any encounters or drawn any strange activity even after we went into business. Dana's a strong, beautiful, modern woman. I'm not surprised I have to beat them off with a stick.”

Dana chuckled as Egon answered. “You are also the primary point of contact for a business that traps and imprisons various paranormal entities. We discussed this possibility earlier on in the week, that the ghosts are choosing to target us because we have caught enough of them to constitute a threat.”

“I think we're getting off-topic here,” Ray spoke up. “This ghost _deliberately_ attacked Peter....never mind my bookshop....and told him specifically: ' _You_ killed me. I owe _your_ family.' It's a ghost from a specific point in history that has a personal vendetta against _Peter_. That's where we need to start. We need to go back through Peter's history, as much as we can, and see if we can tie what we know into what we find. Once we have that, we might be able to figure out what object is connecting the bookshop and the apartment.”

A few more moments of silence passed, and then Erica suddenly put a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh no. Oh _no_.”

“What?” Dana asked.

“The bookshop on Monday and the apartment today,” Erica whispered, her voice catching. Egon's eyebrows lifted as he realized her eyes were filling with tears. “I mean, other than Peter...I know of something...” her voice was starting to break, “that's been near both of those places at the same time of the attacks.”

“What is it?” Dana pressed.

Erica walked over to her purse on the couch and opened it. When she turned back around, she was holding a small book, its unreadable pages held together by a leather strap. The front cover of the book said only: 'You have a job to do.'


	8. The Answers, Part Two

**Chapter VIII**

**The Answers: Part II**

“Rrawk! Ghostbusters! Whaddaya want?”

The parrot's voice floated up the stairs, breaking the spell of horrified silence. Erica reacted immediately, spinning around and hurling the book as hard as she could towards the corner of the room.

“ _No!_ ” Egon lurched after the book, almost tripping over himself in a mad dash to locate its landing place. Erica was losing her balance, sinking to her knees, and Ray moved on instinct, rushing forward to catch her. He pushed her slightly forward onto the couch and then let out an 'oof' as he fell next to her. She slumped on him, little sobs shaking her body. He gave Janine a 'help me' look, but Janine just turned on her heel and headed for the stairs. Ray looked down at Erica, who was clutching at his shirt with one hand and sobbing into the other, and felt a small bit of warmth steal over him. _Today has turned into a really, really bad day_ , he thought, and carefully reached around to pet Erica's back. He turned his head as far to the side as it would go and called calmly: “Egie? You got it?”

“Yes,” Egon's tone was short, with a slight edge to it. He was thinking. Ray turned his head back to look at the others, his own mind going to work on the puzzle before him. 

The book. _Of course_ it was the book. He'd had it in the shop for months and Erica was the person it had been waiting for. The memory came to him in a sudden wave of guilt and horror: he'd made a transaction before the insurance adjuster had come to look at the property. If the receipt was found, it could nullify his claim. What could he have been _thinking_ , doing something like that?

_Well, if the book was possessed by a ghost and the ghost affected me, I wouldn't have been in control of my actions. But try using_ that _in a court of law._ It certainly hadn't helped years ago in the fallout after Gozer, and he doubted the ghost would have the timing of the Scoleri Brothers. _What am I gonna do?_

_I can't think about this now._

Janine came back up the stairs and walked over to Ray. She handed him a box of tissues and then walked back to Peter's bedside and took Oscar. 

Once the baby was off of his lap, Peter started to get up. His legs shook and he grabbed onto the bed for balance. Dana and Winston instantly came to his aid, helping him stand up. He pushed their hands away and rolled his shoulders, clearly drawing on his inner fount of strength to keep his balance. Ray knew his friend; Peter would stand and stay standing until his body couldn't hold him up anymore. He always had to be the strongest and being unconscious for the last few hours couldn't be good for his mental health. Ray wished, honestly, that he could tell Peter to lay down and heal, but he knew Peter wouldn't listen.

Ray drew a tissue out and handed it to Erica. She snatched it and sat up, pulling away from him. He let her go and held out the tissue box. She grabbed several more, then just took the whole box and started talking. “I'm sorry, I had no idea, I swear, I've been trying to read it all week and I can't. I have no idea what it says but if the ghost got out because I turned a page or something, I don't know, I don't know how these things work, I'm so sorry...” She blew her nose and took in deep breath after deep breath, valiantly trying to get herself under control.

Egon came over, his PKE meter out. He passed it in front of Ray and Erica again, and his brow furrowed. “I told you you were hot earlier today,” he said. “The readings are almost identical to those given off by the book. I'll need to do a more in-depth analysis and take a blood sample from each of you to ensure they're the same.”

“What about Peter?” Ray asked. “The residual PKE energy readings in his body should match the book, too.”

Egon walked over and scanned Peter. His eyebrows drew together. “The readings are...similar. I will include this information in my analysis. Peter, sit down. I'll need to take a blood sample from you, too.”

“I'm fine.”

“I'm not asking you. Someone who has been through the kind of trauma you have runs a greater risk for shock, the symptoms of which I've no doubt you are experiencing. I will not draw blood from you unless you are sitting, and I have no way of proving that this is the same ghost without your blood. So sit down, please. _Now._ ” Egon's brown eyes were practically sparking and he was glaring at Peter with an intensity so palpable Ray forgot to breathe. He had a vague feeling that there was something else going on under all of this, something bothering Egon that was compounded by the sudden realization that all of them were vulnerable. Next to him, Erica was shaking so violently he could feel the couch cushions moving. 

Peter went and sat on the bed. Egon set to drawing blood from Erica and Ray quickly and efficiently, asking: “Erica, how did you get the book?”

Erica's voice was thick with the effort of not crying, and shaking as bad as her hands. It took Egon several seconds to find a still moment to draw her blood. “I b-bought it. From Ray. I brought it home and tried to read it and couldn't. I left it next to my bed today before going to the c-carnival. I grabbed it before we came back here....I don't know why. I felt like I had to. I _had_ t-to...”

Ray could stand it no longer. Once Egon had finished drawing Erica's blood, he shifted over and put an arm around her, offering his other arm to Egon. He had no doubt she was feeling personally responsible for the events of the week, and it wasn't her fault. They'd seen this before, usually in clients, and it never failed to fascinate Ray. People sometimes thought that they had done something to bring the ghost about when really they'd just moved into the ghost's territory. He vaguely wondered which way it was with him. He hadn't given the book back to its owner when it had arrived as a bonus with a shipment, and he had sold it to Erica, who lived just down the hall from Peter. So had the book come to him, or had he stepped into its destined path?

Either way, his arm around Erica was a comfort to them both. 

Egon was musing aloud as he moved over and prepared Peter's arm. “If the book was exerting a supernatural will on you and Raymond, that would explain why you felt you had to buy it and why he felt he had to sell it. But if that is the case, then the book has been in your apartment all week and Peter has only been attacked once.” He picked up the needle.

“And I've been...ow!” Peter flinched as Egon pierced his arm. “Good going, Freddy Kreuger. Shouldn't I be asleep when you do this?” 

Egon rolled his eyes. 

Peter continued. “I've been alone in the apartment a few times this week. No ghost.”

“Well, didn't we talk about how the ghosts are adapting to us?” Ray said. “I mean, depending on the level of sentience, the ghost of a Confederate soldier could retain strategic memories. We were all far away and distracted by the carnival. It knew it would have plenty of time to attack without the risk of us coming home.”

“This blood sample will assist in dispelling the mystery.” Egon withdrew the needle and pressed gauze to the wound. “Hold your arm above your head.” He quickly gathered up the sample, the printouts from the monitors, and the book. “I will be downstairs. Alert me if the ghost returns.”

“Oh, you'll be the first to know,” Peter sneered. Egon ignored him as he left the room.

Ray was powerfully compelled to take a deep, shuddering breath of relief, and felt a small shock when a sweet, soft smell accompanied that breath. He was still holding Erica, who had stopped shaking and had rested her head on his shoulder. He suspected the scent was her shampoo. He also suspected the warm, protective feeling shooting through him had little to do with solving the mystery and everything to do with the feel of Erica's skin under his fingers. _Why didn't I do this in the Ferris Wheel? She was right next to me._

“At least we have _some_ answers,” he said aloud, refocusing his mind on the upcoming task but not changing his position on the couch “We can look for something specific now. This one's not going to be easy. Vendettas are one of the strongest _raisons d'etre_ for paranormal entities. It's not just lore, it's practically academic.”

Peter lowered his arm. “We're still operating under the assumption that it's after me. I'm telling you, I haven't done anything!”

“It doesn't matter,” Ray sighed. “Blood feuds are common in history, even up to now. If your grandfather wronged this ghost, he'll make all future descendants pay the price. He'll probably find some way to tell you why he's after you. The only problem is, he's not likely to tell you that until he has you trapped and ready to be killed. We need history, Peter...not just information on vendetta ghosts. If you know anything from back in your family tree, anything at all, that could give us a hint...”

“My parents died in a carnival accident,” Peter muttered. “Before that, I don't know. My family tree's got so many branches I couldn't even begin to guess or assume...I probably had an ancestor in the Civil War, but....”

Ray closed his eyes, trying to think. In the movies, the ghost always had to perform some task or some ritual before it could move on. More often than not, the task was killing the person that had killed it. But he believed Peter: there was no way he could be a murderer. Which meant either blood feud or mistaken identity, and neither boded well for Peter Venkman.

“I guess we're back to reading,” he sighed, reluctantly lifting his arm from Erica. She sat up immediately and grabbed another tissue, blowing her nose again. She didn't look at him as she stood up and walked to the kitchen, throwing away the used tissues.

“I'll clean up the leftover food,” Dana said.

“I'll help,” Peter chimed in, starting to get up.

Dana put a hand on his chest. “You're staying in bed.” Peter started to protest and she shook her head. “I know, but Egon's right. You've had a bad couple of days. I'll get you a beer. Just stay there for right now.”

Peter glared at her as she also headed to the kitchen but Ray saw something shift in his eyes. “Fine. I guess I am a little tired.”

“There's actually a call today,” Winston said. “I'll handle it. It's just a little one.”

“Didn't we have the day off?” Peter asked.

“We did but....the Chinese restaurant I got our lunch from had a ghost, and I told them I'd take care of it today. They gave us lunch for free.”

Peter looked mildly impressed. “Okay. They still have to pay for our services but...give 'em the “Nice Guy” discount.”

Winston laughed and headed downstairs to change.

Erica came back, red-faced and holding two beers. She held one out to Ray, who took it with a smile. He started digging through the books, still feeling more optimistic than he'd been a couple of hours ago. They knew something now. It was a terrifying something, but it was a something.

~*~

“Egon.”

“Yes?”

The word was automatic, a response before his brain had even registered who was speaking. As he turned to face Janine, however, Egon felt his blood run cold. He kept his face neutral as his eyes landed on her, even as his insides twisted. She had been brilliantly clear in her response to his question earlier. She could not be Janine around him. He was too difficult for her to endure. The sooner his heart began to accept it, the better, because it was beginning to be too much to be around her now. “I'm working, can this wait?”

“No.” Her hand, delicate and warm, closed around his wrist. “I need to talk to you.”

“Do you mind if we talk here?” he asked. “The bedroom is two floors up and I need to stay within visual range of these readings...”

“Egon.” She cut him off, her hand tightening. “You didn't understand what I was saying.”

Egon stared at her, his mind racing through the last few moments. What could he possibly have not understood? She wanted to talk, he was willing to talk as long as they stayed in the basement. Unless she meant their last conversation, in which case he had no idea what he could have missed there either. “What do you mean?”

“You said: 'Why Louis?'.”

She _did_ mean the conversation from earlier. Egon pulled his wrist from her hand and turned back to the readings. “There was nothing to misunderstand,” he argued. “As long as you are with me, you can't be who you want to be. I understand that on a level that you may not realize I can.” His voice dipped towards the lower spectrum as hurt and frustration crept into it. He took a deep breath and willed his emotions back. There was no need to turn this into an argument. He'd had enough arguments with her in his mind over the years. He was tired of the pain fighting caused. He was tired of trying to figure out how to be the man she wanted him to be. He was tired of trying to redeem himself for a wrong he hadn't even realized he was committing.

“Louis is _stupid_ , Egon!” Janine grabbed his shoulder and pulled him around to face her. Egon stared, surprised at her sudden passion.

“He's _stupid_ ,” she continued. “He does whatever I tell him. He can barely finish sentences when he's talking to me, even after months of being together. He's boring. Do you know how many pages of tax law he can cover in an hour? Because I don't! I fell asleep after five minutes!”

Egon continued to stare.

“And he has the weirdest set of boundaries I've ever seen! He has no trouble just exercising in the middle of the living room and sitting, stinking up the sofa after. But if you walk into the kitchen while he's cooking it's like you set the place on fire on purpose or something. Don't you understand? He's everything you _aren't_! He's stupid, and short-sighted, and boring. He doesn't challenge me, he doesn't correct me, he doesn't notice things in life or care about things like where ghosts come from.”

Egon could feel the connections forming, and the strange joy and hope that came with them caught his breath. He was beginning to see the answer Janine had given him earlier from a completely different perspective. _I am everything Louis isn't. I am not stupid, or short-sighted, or boring._ But seeing that also began to raise more questions. “If what he is makes you this upset, why are you with him?”

“Because he's _not_ you!” Janine let go and put her hands to her head, groaning aloud. “Egon...when we broke up, I needed to be with anyone.... _anyone_....who wasn't you. I needed to forget you. I needed to...well, I just....it's not important. It's not important anymore because I give up. I'm tired of closing my eyes at night and seeing your face. I'm tired of kissing Louis and wishing it was you. I'm tired of being _without_ you.”

Egon tried to think of the last time he had ever seen Janine this upset. The only thing that came to mind was their last fight. Her eyes had been glistening with tears. Her cheeks had been bright red. She hadn't been able to breathe properly. She'd been breaking up with him at the time, and so any form of comfort had been inappropriate. But there was something in her voice now, something in the words she had used, that made him wonder. _Is she asking for us to resume our relationship?_ The idea was ludicrous and wonderful all at the same time. _I am inadequate. I failed her in the past. There's no reason to think I won't do so again. But right now, she requires comfort._ He stepped awkwardly towards her and lifted his arms, cringing as his mind howled at him to stop.

Janine didn't hesitate, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him to her little, lithe body. Egon's heart began to race at the contact, so warm and familiar and pleasurable. Her head rested against his chest and he let his face fall into her hair, breathing in the scents. She hadn't changed her shampoo in five years, though the ugly sting of hair color intruded on the soft smell.

"Aren't you tired, too?" she asked, her voice just higher than a whisper.

He was, though how she knew that he had no idea. Janine, as a woman, had remarkable powers of observation and intuition. It was one of the most frustrating mysteries about her, that with all those powers she hadn't been able to communicate to him that their relationship was in trouble until it was beyond saving. 

“Yes,” he said quietly.

She smiled against his chest, and her grip tightened a little. “Then why don't you come over? To my place, tonight? Come home with me.”

Egon remained still, holding her, his brain racing at speeds that almost left him dizzy. No, he _was_ dizzy. He couldn't seem to get enough air, and the basement was feeling small and hot. He recognized the perplexing mix of arousal and panic pumping through his veins, and struggled to gain some control. He loosened his grip around Janine and took a step back, unable to completely let go of her but aware that he wasn't going to be able to think with her pressed up against him. “Janine,” he said, his voice coming out softer than he expected, “the last time I went home with you, the night ended badly. You spent most of it crying, and I spent most of it walking around New York City feeling like I failed you. I didn't like that night and I don't ever want to repeat it. I can't go home with you.”

Janine's eyes filled up with tears and her hands reached to catch and hold his elbows. Egon groaned inwardly. It seemed that Janine was either going to cry now or later, and he was (or would be) the cause no matter what. He braced himself.

“I don't want anyone but you.”

The words were a physical blow to his chest, and Egon rocked slightly back. He looked frantically over at the readings, willing the computer to print something, anything to take his mind off of what was happening. But while the readings were steady and true and calm, they were of no help. Not at the moment.

“I fail you,” he said. He felt the words cut his throat, almost making him cough. He couldn't look back at her. “You pointed that out to me on our last night. I will not be responsible for hurting you again, and that's final.”

Janine's hand slowly slid from his elbows and he felt a chill replace the warmth of her body. He stopped the sigh of relief that tried to come from his throat, and continued turning back towards the readings. The sinking sensation of grief began to close his throat, and then Janine appeared in front of him, a focus burning in her wet eyes. “I want to tell you something that I haven't told anyone.”

“Janine, please...”

“There are things about myself that I don't like.” Her hands caught his and held them. “There are things I don't tell anyone, ever, because I'm afraid of what people will think of me.”

Egon looked at her. She seemed to draw strength from his gaze, pulling herself up, and continuing. “One of those things is that when I'm upset or scared or confused, I'll...project. You know what I mean, project?”

“The psychological defense mechanism in which you deny the existence of your own positive and negative unconscious impulses by attributing them to those around you?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, I know what you mean by project.”

She chuckled. He didn't quite understand why. But it was a smile, which was more than he was expecting to see. _Maybe I can keep her from becoming too sad._ Her face grew serious. _Maybe._

“The night we broke up...that stupid thing everyone says when they break up, you know, 'it's not you, it's me'? Well, it wasn't you. It was me. I was projecting.”

Egon wasn't quite following her anymore. “I don't understand. You made such a point of telling me I was incapable of returning your feelings, of caring about you. You said I was only pretending the whole time we were together. Are you saying that all of those things you were shouting at me, you were shouting at yourself?”

“I was afraid,” Janine confessed. “I was confused. I told you, there are things about myself I don't like. Most of the relationships I've had don't get too far past the bedroom.” Her perfect skin turned pink and she dropped her eyes. “But you named a star after me.”

He remembered that. “JM-1961.”

“Exactly. You...treated me different than anyone else. Better. And after we left the bedroom, you...stayed.”

“So because I treated you better and stayed with you after intercourse, you blamed me for being emotionless and pretending to care about you?”

Janine shifted and crossed her arms in front of her. She didn't say anything, but Egon recognized the stance. She was upset. Guilty. Given what she had confessed to him, that made sense. He replayed the last few sentences in his mind, trying to figure out how to move the conversation forward or at least see what she said from a different perspective.

The plan worked. A sentence stood out on the second round of replay: She'd broken up with him because he'd treated her better than others had. Why would she do that? 

_Because she feels as inadequate as I do. Because she feels...undeserving._

His brilliant mind ran with the idea. If she had indeed been shouting at herself instead of him, that would fit the definition of 'projection'. If she'd been shouting at herself instead of him, that led to one inevitable conclusion: maybe he _wasn't_ inadequate. Maybe their breakup _hadn't_ entirely been his fault. There was certainly still some concern on the words she had used, but she was standing in front of him now, asking if he was tired of being away from her. And he was. And if she was hurting, if she was trapped in the same circle he had been in for five years, who was he to let her go through it alone? Who better than he to stop it?

“I can't come home with you,” he finally said. “You live with Louis and I have no desire for him to hear our conversations.”

Janine looked up, hope filling her eyes. There were tears on her cheeks, tiny points of wetness that caught the light and made her face sparkle. “I'll call him. Explain. He'll be gone by the time we get there. We'll be alone.”

“No.” Egon shook his head. “You and I hurt each other very badly in the past. If you want to repair and resume our relationship, we need to talk first.” Speaking at home would be the best option, but he knew there might be other emotions in the way, other desires that sprang up more freely in the privacy of one's living quarters. Those emotions would interfere with the repairs.

“So where do we go?” Janine pressed.

“We'll find somewhere.” Egon turned back to the computer. “We'll talk. I promise you.” The words came naturally, as though they'd just been sitting on the tip of his tongue waiting to be said. And they had, really, for years.

He felt her hand grab his arm, and then suddenly her lips were on his cheek. A warm rush spread through him and a helpless smile pulled at his mouth. He listened to the sound of her footsteps clicking away before refocusing on the information before him.

~*~

“It's not the book.”

Egon's voice sounded as though it was coming from underwater. Erica blinked, disconnecting herself from the words on the page. Emerging from a book was never an easy task, even more so when the subject matter was how to kill a ghost that was after your friend. She reread the last sentence quickly to mentally mark her place, and closed the book on her finger. Next to her, Ray shifted and looked up over the top of his reading glasses. Erica felt the brush of his skin on hers and realized she'd unconsciously settled into a reading position next to him, their arms touching. She remembered his arm around her, comforting her, and she remained still, not wanting to ruin the moment.

“What?” Ray asked.

“It's not the book.” Egon trotted over to them, holding a stack of papers and the book in his hands, a look on his face that Erica almost didn't recognize. His eyes were bright, and his lips were slightly parted in an excited smile. _Have I seen him look happy before?_ She shot a look at Ray, who was putting his book aside and taking off his glasses. His face was brightening as well in response to Egon's enthusiasm. 

“Here,” Egon jabbed his finger at the readouts. “See?”

Ray sprang to his feet, leaving a cold void next to Erica. She stood up too, leaving the book on the couch, and peered around Egon's arm, trying to make sense of the numbers and squiggles in front of her. Nothing stood out, so she looked at the mens' faces. Ray's smile began to fade into a troubled look after a couple of moments, though Egon's didn't change. 

“If it's not the book, we're back to square one,” Ray said, his voice starting to sound heavy with fatigue.

“Don't be so sure. The book definitely had an effect on you and Erica,” Egon confirmed. “But most importantly, the readings I took from Peter matched the readings I got from the carnival.”

“What?” Peter called from the bed. “Come over here, I can't get up! Mom won't let me!”

The three moved over to the bed where Peter lay. Dana was scoffing gently at him, sitting on the edge of the bed. Erica took up residence next to her, and Ray and Egon grouped around Peter.

“I felt the PKE meter buzzing in my coat while we were at the carnival,” Egon began. “When I took it out, it registered extremely strong readings in several locations. However, each of the readings indicated residual energy, not active energy. There had been a ghost there, but it wasn't there anymore. Now, we know that ghosts often leave ectoplasmic residue in their wakes when interacting with physical objects. We believe that when a person is possessed, a small amount of ectoplasmic residue is left in their bloodstream.”

“We do?” Peter asked, lifting a hand to his face. “Wait, there's slime _inside_ me?” He shuddered, his face twisting in revulsion.

“It's a theory we've been tossing around for a while,” Ray said. “We just haven't had any way to prove it.”

Egon looked pointedly at Oscar and Dana, and Dana shook her head. Egon sighed. “The residue may be absorbed into the person's body over time, or it may remain in their bloodstream indefinitely. We have no way of knowing yet. But we believe...we _hoped_...that there may have been at least a marker, of sorts, that was left behind. Peter, your blood reading confirmed a definite presence.”

“Happy to help,” Peter groused.

“What about ours?” Erica asked, her heart starting to pound. _Did I get possessed like Dana? I didn't destroy any apartments or wake up in any strange places, but..._

“No,” Egon said.

“But we definitely did things we wouldn't have done,” Ray spoke up. “I mean...she got the book after the attack. And after that, I remember feeling relieved the book was gone. I don't remember why, though. And that's not right either. I should know why.”

“I had to buy the book,” Erica added. “It was mine. It was supposed to be mine.” Wait, that wasn't right, or at least that wasn't the right thing to say. She didn't recognize the book, didn't know anything about it. How could it be hers? Why did she feel so insistent on making that point?

“The book could be compelling you, like the cat in the pet store,” Egon said. “The little girl was severely allergic, but she couldn't put the animal down and leave. The only way was to force the cat away from her.”

“So we throw the book away?” Erica wanted nothing more than to snatch it from Egon's hands and hide it in her purse. She'd throw anything in the room at the person who tried to take it away from her. “No, that's not happening.”

“I wouldn't advise it,” Egon replied. He held the book out to her and she grabbed it, a sense of relief and completion washing over her. “I would, however, ask that you try to _read_ it.”

Erica stared. “What?”

Egon was silent for a few moments, looking like he was gathering his thoughts. He spoke again, slowly, likely uttering the words for the first time and hearing either how ridiculous or how believable they sounded. “Even though I believe the book is not the cause of this ghost, I also believe they are connected. Over the years of studying PKE energy, Ray and I have both discovered that certain ghosts have similar patterns. Consequently, the residue they leave also has similar patterns. The book and the ghost that possessed Peter are two separate supernatural occurrences, but their readings share a similarity I can't ignore. It's possible that this book explains the origin of the ghost and how to stop it. Ray and I have spent years trying to read it and had countless people try to buy it. We have never had the book decide for itself who it belongs to. I think that book does belong to you, and I think you're the one who can read it.”

Erica looked down at the book in her hands, an immense pressure pushing on her chest and shoulders. Even if she hadn't been responsible for the ghost's attacks, it was possible she was responsible for stopping them. She longed, suddenly, to be as far away from New York City as possible, back in Oregon, blissfully and naively dreaming about the possibilities of paranormal activity. All the reading she had done had not prepared her for the reality. She was starting to understand just how afraid Alice and Dana had been.

“I've been trying to read it all week,” she said quietly, her voice beginning to shake. “It's just scribbles.” She opened the page and held it out. Ray came over and tilted his head at it. “It looks the same to you as it does to me.”

“What does it say on the cover?” Dana asked. “That looks like it was English.”

Erica closed the book and looked at the words on the cover. “It says: “You have a job to do.”

The book began to glow a bright red. Ray took a couple of steps back. Egon's eyes widened and he leaned forward. Peter's eyebrows lifted. Erica gasped and tried to drop the book but couldn't open her fingers to do so. The red glow intensified, bathing her hands and arms. 

And then it faded.

“That's never happened before,” Erica whispered.

“You never thought to read the only bit of English on the thing out loud?” Peter laughed.

Erica looked at her skin in dismay. There were red splotches all over her hands and partially up her arms. “I never felt a need to, no,” she said, not really focusing on the answer. “What is this?”

“It looks like blood,” Egon said.

Now Erica _could_ drop the book, and she did so, spitting on her fingers and frantically scrubbing the red patches. It did no good. There was no pain; she hadn't been injured. But it wouldn't come off. “Can someone get me a wet towel or something? I need to get this off of me!”

“Your saliva isn't working,” Egon stated. “I don't think water will help.”

“ _Please?_ ” The pressure in her chest was starting to become unbearable. “Please, _help_ me!” 

Ray hurried towards the kitchen. Egon moved slowly over to her and knelt beside the book, which was laying open on the ground. He stared at it for several moments before speaking. “I still can't read it.”

Ray returned with the towel and Erica set to scrubbing. But even though her unmarked skin turned pink from the friction, the red splotches didn't fade a bit. She stared at them, feeling panic close her throat. _I am not crying again. I am not. I'm covered in blood that isn't mine, but I'm just fine._

“Is it a cursed item?” Ray asked Egon. 

“Perhaps,” Egon replied. “But if she can read it now, I'm more inclined to believe that the contents of the book were hidden by some kind of spell.”

“What, you mean like _witchcraft_?” Peter's tone suggested exactly what he thought of the idea. “Egon, that's a whole new can of worms that I don't think _any_ of us is qualified to open.”

“Just because we have not encountered it does not mean it does not exist,” Egon countered.

“I didn't say it doesn't exist,” Peter said, “just that we are gonna be out of our league if it's what we're dealing with here.”

“Erica, _can you read the book?_ ” Egon insisted.

Erica looked down at the book at her feet, and bent over to squint at it. The pages were filled with the same precise, small flow of letters...except now the letters formed words. In English. Plain, readable English.

“I.... _can_ ,” she gasped.

“You can?” A bright, joyful smile began to dawn on Ray's face. “You _can_!?”

Erica picked up the book, not even thinking about the possibility of it bathing her in more red. It didn't glow. But the words on the page were clear.

“ _'The thoughts of Ms. Violet Sharp. 1866, April 13. Today marks a year since I discovered our victory over General Robert Lee in what they are calling the War of the Rebellion. Given this anniversary of freedom, it is only fitting that I announce my joy in finally finding a home to call my own with Independence Faire.'_ ”

“It's a _diary?_ ” Ray burst out.

“It's post-Civil War but not by much,” Egon added. “That could be of some help to us. Erica, keep reading.”

Erica swallowed, looking at the next sentence. _“ 'The pay is very little, only a few coins a week, plus what I make from my predictions. I will have to sleep in my wagon. But at long last I can turn my energies to planning for the future, instead of experiencing the horrors of the present. I must now go inform Eugenia of my new plans. With Arthur dead, she is the best and only friend the war has left me. I am ever grateful for her counsel.' ”_ She looked up. “The entry ends there.”

“A post-Civil War diary,” Ray breathed, his eyes shining. “This whole time, the legendary book was a diary. Can you imagine what it says in there?”

“Hopefully, it says why the heck I have a ghost after me,” Peter said.

“And why Erica is the only one who can read it,” Dana added.

“And why it left these marks on my hands,” Erica murmured.

“She mentioned the names Violet, Arthur, and Eugenia. Are any of those familiar to you?” Egon asked.

Peter stared at him, the look on his face one of complete incredulity. “Spengs, I told you, I don't know my family tree. Dad's name was Charles, mom's was Margaret, and they both died right before I went to college. Dad said the Venkman name went back a long way in carnivals but I never needed to know...” his voice trailed off. “Wait, did you say Independence Faire?”

“Yes, that's what it says,” Erica answered. “Why?”

“The carnival I worked at...that's what it was called before my dad took over.” Peter's eyes glazed as he worked through the memory. “I mean...I think that's what it was. He got a lot of heat for changing the name because most of the people that worked there had a grandmother or great-aunt or something in the original company, but after the war he figured the whole thing needed an update.”

“What did he change the name to?” Dana asked. 

“King City Attractions.”

Dana's eyes widened. “That's the carnival that's in town.”

Peter blinked. His expression didn't change but the blood drained from his face. Dana continued. “I mean, it's called Duke Brothers Carnival now. Egon and I spoke to a woman who worked there today. She said the carnival had been changing hands and names for years since its impresario died.”

“Since my _dad_ died,” Peter elaborated in a thin voice.

“So the carnival in town is the one in the diary _and_ the one Peter worked at while growing up,” Egon concluded. “I hardly believe that is a coincidence.”

“It _can't_ be,” Ray agreed. “I'll bet you lunch that the ghost is coming from the carnival somehow. We just need to know how it's getting around and what happened to it and why it wants Peter.” He looked at Erica. “What's on the last page of the diary?”

Erica flipped the pages tenderly. “Well, there are a few pages missing, but the last thing I can see...the entry is dated 1866, 23 December. _'Levi is dead, and nothing I do will ever give him or me rest. So now I must take the only course of action left to me.'_ ”

“ _That_ sounds ominous,” Peter muttered.

“That sounds _promising_ ,” Ray grinned. 

Erica sighed. “Okay. Let me see what else I can find out.”

~*~

The city bustled with activity as the sun went down and the sky darkened to night. The blinding lights blocked out any chance of stars becoming visible, though the moon did fight for its place on the skyline. The customers trickled out of Duke Brothers Carnival, exhausted but happy, their minds filled with nonsense music and their bellies filled with cotton candy and popcorn. The carnies locked up their wares, sealing them for the night, and retired to their various sleeping locations, anywhere from a nearby hotel to within their wagons themselves. 

The newly-repaired fortune teller's wagon sat quietly just inside the entrance, prepared for its grand reopening tomorrow. It had been damaged on the long haul from the Corn Belt to New York City, and had spent a few days chugging along on the back of a truck to and from repair shops within the city. Now it was ready for the crowds, its bright gold letters promising fortune and glory, its faded red exterior and spoked wheels proclaiming its age. It was one of the only remaining wagons from the creation of the carnival, and it had seen many changes...and many horrors.

A wisp of smoke slipped out from the door, forming into the legless torso of a man dressed in the uniform of a Confederate soldier. The ghost turned in the direction of Central Park, its eyes focused and narrowed in hate. It had been angry before, but now it was livid. Twice it had tried to free itself from the horror of existing. Twice it had failed. It had one more idea on how to accomplish its goal.

“Only wanted t' kill _you_ , Venkman,” it hissed. “But now, no choice.”


	9. The Plan

**Chapter IX**

**The Plan**

Night was very rarely quiet in New York City, and the Firehouse was no exception. The lights were on everywhere except the sleeping quarters, and the hum of the storage unit filled the air. Janine, Peter, Dana, Oscar, and Winston had gone home a little while before, and Erica sat on the couch still, holding the diary in her hands, yawning sleepily and wondering if she'd be able to just lay down on the couch and pass out.

Egon and Ray were both still there, though they were asleep on the beds upstairs. They'd cordoned off a separate space for her in the sleeping quarters, but the dark room and peaceful atmosphere had done nothing to calm her anxious mind. She'd finally gotten back up and padded downstairs. With a sigh of relief, she'd cracked the cover once more and returned to the intriguing, bold life of Violet Sharp.

Most of Violet's entries described dusty but colorful journeys on the road as the carnival moved from place to place. The wagons were drawn by horses over short distances, but sometimes everyone got loaded up onto a train that swayed and creaked and chugged past the devastation from the war. The lions didn't like the train and spent a lot of time roaring in frustration, and almost four pages were devoted to a 'tremendous excitement' that involved a cobra loose in the reptile car. Violet herself spent most of her time in her wagon, though she did continue to describe Eugenia and her husband Hugh as 'constant, dear companions'. 

Violet also spent time describing the people that came to her wagon. It hadn't taken long for Erica to deduce that she worked as a fortune teller at the carnival. But scattered throughout the pages were strange clues that hinted at something deeper, something far more occult. Violet seemed to not only use the traditional crystal balls and card readings, but also body language and facial expressions. Much, Erica realized, like her. Even more disturbing were the words: “ _'I was right.'_ ” These occurred several times, usually after describing an event Violet had claimed to have seen in a crystal ball or dreamed on a stormy night. Cold tendrils of fear wrapped around Erica's heart as she read through the book, acutely aware that she was reading about a woman who was honestly, truly psychic...and horrified by it.

At one point, she turned a page to find a single, undated paragraph. The words read: “ _'Those that visit me rarely want the truth. So no matter what I see, I must convince them their lives are going to better. But I am often privy to secrets that break my heart and raise conundrums of morality. I know what I see. Do I really have the right to hide the truth from those I know are going to hurt?'_ ” The agony was clear in the shaky handwriting and the suspected teardrops marring the words. The next entry after that was almost a week later, and made no mention of the previous one. Erica had to stop reading for a little while, however, surprised to find herself breathing heavily, on the verge of tears. She went to splash some water on her face and look at herself in the mirror, alarmed by how strongly she was relating to the author of the book. The red splotches on her arms were fading, but the fading only made them look more like splashed blood. _Blood on my hands that isn't mine. It's not mine. I didn't do this, whatever horrible thing this book thinks I did. I didn't! What does it want?_

The spiral in her mind began to grow in intensity and she twisted away from it. _I can't get too scared. I won't be able to help anyone if I'm scared._

She sat back down on the couch and picked up the book.

After a couple of seconds, her eyes focused and she fell in, intently reading. The entry, dated 1866, 15 July, described a charged meeting between Violet and a young man named Levi Spencer. Erica flipped quickly to the end of the book. _“ 'Levi is dead, and nothing I do will ever give him or me rest.' ”_ She flipped back. _Is this Levi?_

“ _'Levi has not forgotten the passions of war,'_ ” Violet wrote. “ _'He demanded to know the name of the spy responsible for the ambush at Shaw's Mill. I tried to deny him, but he pressed me to great lengths, revealing the names of deceased family members and friends. I've no doubt he will seek revenge on the informant, and to that end I cannot reveal the name. Too many more lives would be destroyed if I did. We were on opposing sides of the rebellion, Levi and I. But it is over. I will not unearth old ghosts. It is our time to move forward. I only wish he felt the same.'_ ”

Erica flipped through the pages, and was not disappointed. Levi returned to Violet again and again, each time demanding the name, each time being rebuffed. His anger and Violet's fear grew with each passing entry. Her dreams grew more violent and the predictions she made to people were causing her more and more pain to reveal. It was clear, Erica realized, that Violet was wearing down under the pressure.

“Still reading?”

Erica looked up to see Ray wandering into the sitting room. He had on black pajama pants and a dark red button-down sleep shirt. His face was bleary from sleep, and his hair stuck up in every direction. And he still looked handsome. _God, I need help._

“I can't help it,” she shrugged, smiling shyly. “It's a good book.” A sudden thought occurred to her and she straightened up on the couch. “Oh...I didn't wake you, did I?”

Ray took a seat next to her. “No, no, don't worry. But it _is_ getting late. Maybe...” his lips curled in an ironic smile, “...maybe you should accept that this one's got you, and you have to wait until morning to bust it.”

Erica couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her throat. “Oh my...I deserved that. You're absolutely right, you know. It's just...” her voice trailed off as her mind raced over the heaviness of the last few pages. “I have this bad feeling. It's not just guilt, it's....my hands look like they're covered in blood. The ghost said Peter killed him. Violet right now is being tormented by the guy she said was dead at the end of the diary. I can't help but feel like everything is connected and I just can't see the reason....except I _have_ to see the reason, because the blood is on _my_ hands and the book is only readable to _me_.”

Ray relaxed and reached out to touch her, his warm, callused hand gently closing around hers. “It's different when it's personal. You're too close to the problem to be objective.” He tilted his head, trying to get in her line of vision. She let him, smiling shyly. He gave her hand a little squeeze. “Trust me to be objective here. Even if you figured out tonight why the ghost is after Peter, we still don't know how to bust it. We have time.” He delicately began to pry her fingers from the book. Erica let him, and he turned to set the book on the arm of the couch behind him.

“Did you go to sleep that night?" she asked.

Ray was silent for a few moments before sighing. “No. I was up most of the night, taking pictures, writing out what happened over and over, until I couldn't see the words in front of me. Your coffee really helped the next day.”

Erica gave him a tiny smile, remembering the awkwardness of the morning. “It's good to know I helped a little.”

Ray chuckled. “More than a little.”

Erica let her eyes linger on his smile for a couple seconds before looking down at her hands. She began to fidget, twisting her fingers together. Everything inside of her screamed to yank the book back and open it, keep pushing, look for the elusive answer that would tie all of her questions together. But she had to admit that Ray had a point. She could feel the fatigue setting into her bones as her mind struggled to let go of the hold the problem had on her. The couch went from feeling like a chair to feeling like a warm blanket wrapping around her back and molding to her shape. She felt the heaviness of the pages slide from her mind to her body. “Whether or not I want to, I think my body's rebelling,” she murmured, surprised that it took actual effort to say the words.

“Yeah. That happens when you stop thinking for a few seconds.” Ray reached over and took her hands. The sudden feel of his skin on hers woke up her nervous system, and she quickly looked over at him. His eyes were resting on hers, the light catching each one and bringing out its individual color. Green and brown. One color bright and happy, the other warm and soft, both of which described him perfectly.

Without thinking, she said: “Your eyes are really pretty, you know that?”

Ray smiled. “Thanks.” He let go of one of her hands and reached up to push her hair a little more out of her face, even though it wasn't really in her way. His fingers drifted past her cheek, brushing it almost secretly, as though he was trying to steal a moment without anyone noticing. His hand came to rest on her shoulder and he gave it a tiny squeeze. “The fact that you have a bad feeling is all right. I've long since learned to trust my gut instinct. The bad feeling is a warning. You know something's wrong. And because of it, you're ready to face whatever is coming. Don't be afraid of the bad feeling, Erica. It means you're _aware_.”

Erica understood. Her limbs relaxed even more as acceptance and bravery began to crawl through them. _I know all of this ties together. It might take the ghost showing up and attacking us for me to figure it out. But that's better than not having any idea at all._ “I think I get it,” she sighed. “I hope I do.”

Ray leaned forward slightly and slid his hand from her shoulder around behind her back. “Come on,” he said. “Let's get you to bed.”

Erica gratefully accepted the help in standing up, snatching the book from the arm of the couch as they passed it, and boldly leaned on him the whole way up the stairs. As they walked, she became aware that Ray's body seemed to be getting tense. When they reached the door to the sleeping quarters, Ray paused and turned to her, still holding her hand. His thumb traveled over her knuckles, sending little shivers down her spine. He didn't seem to be aware he was doing it, instead looking at her for a long moment. He seemed to be anxious, as though trying to bring up a subject uncomfortable to him. Erica wanted to turn her hand over in his and give him a little squeeze and tell him not to worry. _Did he come downstairs to actually talk about something? Is something wrong?_

“Thank you for coming down,” she whispered, her voice just a couple decibels above inaudible. She really didn't want to wake Egon. “I probably would have been up all night.”

“I know you would have,” he whispered back. He continued to look at her for a few moments and Erica felt anxiety beginning to replace intrigue.

She tugged slightly on his grip. “Well...good night.”

Ray's hand tightened slightly. “Sorry. Sorry. I just have a question.”

“What?”

Ray stared for another moment, then swallowed. “I've been wondering: if hot chocolate is for when you have a bad night and coffee helps you start a busy day, what do you drink when you're on a date?”

Erica's heart did a hard thump in her chest and her eyes widened a little. Her knees and feet suddenly felt very, very far away from her body. “Um...” Words flew out of her head. She'd never had a drink assigned to a date. The drinks were really supposed to just fortify you. They'd make you stop crying or get past a nightmare or stare down a really intimidating final exam. But a date... “Wh-whatever fits the situation, I think...” she said. “If...if you're in Central Park with a hot dog, it's lemonade. Or...pop, I guess. I had cream soda at Jake's but that wasn't a date. If you're at an expensive place, I guess wine....” Her eyes blinked rapidly, she was stuttering over the words. _Is he asking me out? Or is he just asking the question and is curious?_ “I n-never actually...picked one.”

“Well,” Ray swallowed and spoke quickly, if softly, “what if I helped you pick one? Maybe it's not the situation, but the date. You know. First date's something casual, like lemonade. Second date's decaf coffee, since normal coffee's already got it's own place. Third date could be wine. Though we'd have to wait and see, of course. That one's got a lot of assumptions.”

Erica was pretty sure her mouth was hanging open but there was no mistaking the look in Ray's face. Even though his smile was playful, his eyes were hopeful. _He_ is _asking me out. He_ is _. Oh my God, he_ is _._ She could feel a smile breaking out, a smile as joyous as his had been that New Year's Eve. She struggled to keep it in check, even though the struggles resulted in a nervous laugh rolling out of her mouth. She barely managed to get her hand up to muffle the sound, and could do nothing but nod. His eyebrows lifted and she pulled her hand from her mouth, whispering: “Thank you. I'd really appreciate the help.”

Ray's body relaxed, a relieved smile replacing the anxiety on his face, and he gave her hand a squeeze. “You're welcome. We'll discuss more details after we've busted this ghost, all right?”

Erica nodded, another helpless giggle working its way out of her throat. The smile on Ray's face turned to a grin and he gave her hand a little shove. “Stop it.”

Erica put a hand over her mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle her giggles (that seemed to be getting worse as she realized she'd just said yes to a date with Ray Stantz), and tiptoed into the room, slipping behind the divider Egon and Ray had put up so she could change clothes privately. As she crawled into bed, however she heard the unmistakable sound of Ray's muffled laughter. The two of them chuckled into their pillows for several minutes before slipping off to sleep.

~*~

The next few days were hell for Peter Venkman.

At first, he had thought that the ghost revealing itself would be a good thing. It had given itself a purpose, a form, a memory (even one that ate at the corners of his sanity). It had left behind enough traces that Egon could match it to other readings, and given enough clues that the Ghostbusters could start to narrow down the seemingly-impossible search for its hiding place. It was out there, they knew it, and they could get it.

Except they couldn't.

Peter had not been kidding. The few boxes stuffed in the back of his closet that contained personal information only went back a couple of generations at best, stopping somewhere around World War I, and even then only following his father's side of the family. Any other records could only be found in archives of each individual city that Peter's ancestor had lived in, and the Ghostbusters had neither the time nor the money to invest in traveling around the country. Messages were left with various archivists, but for the time being that line of questioning was dead.

On top of that, now that the Ghostbusters had enough proof to assume the attack at the bookshop and the attack at the apartment had been done by the same ghost, Peter discovered he didn't feel safe anywhere. The book may not have been the anchor, but he still did what he could to stay away from it. He had no idea what else, besides him, could possibly be bringing the ghost to him. So, he spent more and more time awake, waiting in silent, exhausting terror, for a scream from Dana or a cry from Oscar. If he felt himself slipping to sleep, he would jolt himself awake, trying to avoid the nightmares that wasted no time intruding on his consciousness as soon as he was vulnerable.

The ghost revealing itself was not a good thing at all.

“I have an idea.”

Ray's voice was tinged with excitement, which was nothing new. As Peter's energy had slipped away from lack of sleep, Ray threw more and more of himself into tracking down various stories and lore of vendetta ghosts. He bounced back and forth between his slowly-rebuilding bookshop and the Firehouse, scribbling notes and inhaling coffee and cigarettes like they were his last hope. Peter was touched by his friend's concern for him, but really all he wanted was another attack, a way to get his hands around this ghost's throat and choke the life out of it. Again. He'd been awake for a while, sure, but he still had enough energy to end this. If it would just show up!

“ _The World of the Psychic._ ” Ray didn't wait for Peter's acknowledgment, which was good, because Peter was having a little trouble hearing him through the annoying buzzing sound in his ears. It had started a few hours ago and seemed to only be getting worse. He stuck a finger in his ear and scrubbed it around a little. No change.

“Pete,” Ray was still talking, “you have a national television show. Get on it. Do a special segment on ghosts that have it out for someone. Ask for call-ins, people with stories or information.”

“Perhaps it would be wise to put Erica on camera.” Egon's voice floated up from the floor below. Peter and Ray exchanged looks but it was Erica who responded, looking up from the couch where she was reading the diary.

“Come again?” she asked, her eyes wide.

Peter and Ray wandered over and peered at Egon below. The tall scientist was standing in their busting uniform, waiting casually by the car but looking up at them thoughtfully. Movement by the lockers revealed Winston throwing on his own uniform. Egon and Winston had been two-manning the busts for four days now, with Ray rebuilding his bookshop and Peter staying out of the line of fire. Peter was proud of them for stepping up. But now he was confused. Egon seemed to be outlined in glowing light. That was new. Had they added something to their uniforms?

“It would be inefficient to retrace the path of the diary through its previous owners by calling each individual person,” Egon said. “Place Erica in front of the camera as a woman being haunted by a ghost. Her only clue as to why this is happening is the diary she bought from an occult bookstore a week ago. If she reveals any information from the diary, such as names, places, or times, someone may call in with helpful information.”

It was a good idea, but Peter couldn't seem to hold on to more than a couple words of it. _This is important, damn it. Focus!_ He looked down at the half-empty mug of coffee in his hand, trying to focus his thoughts. “Egon,” he murmured, his voice slurring, “you're the guy who said I've been proven to be a fraud across the country. What makes you think anyone's going to be watching or that anyone who's going to be watching will care?”

“Because it's highly likely that the only people watching your show are the ones who _do_ care,” Egon replied. “Conspiracy theorists. People that believe in alien abductions, ESP, paranormal activity. People who are not afraid to speak up regarding these beliefs. We have all but proven the existence of several supernatural creatures with our business alone, but the public is still hesitant to believe. They will turn away because they can't handle the idea of ghosts being dangerous or nonfiction.”

“I certainly had trouble when Dana first told me about Zuul.” Erica's voice was right next to him. Peter jumped, not realizing she had come to stand with them. She gave him a strange look and refocused on Egon. Peter noticed that she was glowing too. Maybe he needed to bring that up.

“The people you will reach with this segment will be the people you want to reach,” Egon concluded. “It's a good idea, Raymond.”

“Except for the part about putting me on national television. How many languages do you want me to say no in? I _promise_ I'm not going to be of any use to you!” Erica's voice cracked on the last sentence. Peter stared at her for another moment and decided that since no one else seemed to be reacting to the fact that Egon and Erica were glowing, it was okay. Maybe he just needed more coffee. He took a gulp from the mug in his hand, neither noticing the flavor nor caring about how many cups he had drunk today already. Erica had brought several, along with some hot chocolate, but Peter had gone straight for the coffee. It was dusk in the City that Never Slept. He could stay awake another night. The buzzing in his ears would help.

Winston zipped up his jumpsuit and headed for the driver's side of Ecto-1. Egon followed. “Way I see it,” Winston called out, “we're running out of options for finding this thing! We could use the assistance and who knows? It might save Peter's life!” He dropped into the car and slammed the door. Egon shrugged in agreement, and got in. The car roared to life and headed out the door, its familiar siren reaching back to say goodbye to the people in the Firehouse.

Peter dragged his eyes to Erica, who was staring down at her twisting hands. Something snapped inside of him, and he was overcome with a desire to grab her hands and pin them to a wall. “Do you have to be so afraid of everything?” he snapped, glaring at her.

Erica looked up at him in surprise.

“Peter,” Ray said. “It's not a problem. I'll go on with the book as the shop owner who sold it before the shop was destroyed.”

“No!” Peter knew he was about to cross a line but he didn't want to stop. He had to _do_ something, say _something_. After three days of _nothing_ , he had to have _something_. “No, Erica, you _will_ go on camera, because you're the only one who can read the damn book! You're the only one right now who has any clue about what's going on here. I'm being _hunted_ , in case you didn't notice. That thing wants me _dead_! So stop being such a coward and _help me_!”

Erica's head had sunk during his tirade and now her eyes were aimed firmly at the ground. Her hands were white from tension. Ray immediately moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. _When did he get so chummy with her?_ Peter wondered. He could feel the guilt already welling up from his speech, but he pushed it down. _No. I haven't said enough yet._ “And if you won't, then just make a copy of the diary and leave it with Ray. If we can't count on you to help, then we don't need you in the way.” He spun and walked back to the kitchen, heading for the coffee. His last words seemed to ring in his ears, and the feeling of guilt increased tenfold.

Ray's voice followed him. “Peter. Go get some sleep.”

“I'm fine,” Peter snapped.

“No, you aren't!” Ray argued back, his voice rising in frustration. “You're exhausted and cranky and I wouldn't put you on the telephone to place a takeout order, much less national television! No matter who goes on, you're going to need sleep to get through the segment. Go upstairs and go to bed. _Now._ ”

“He's right.”

Peter turned back to see Erica settled on the couch, her cheeks wet with tears. She repeated her words in a trembling voice. “He's right, Ray. I've never been good at being in public and talking to people. Sometimes I can hide how nervous I get but...national television...” She shook her head and straightened her shoulders. “No. I'll do it. Peter's right. I can read the book. I do know the most about the situation. I'm the best choice.” She looked up at Peter. “This whole thing scares me sick. But I'm not the one the ghost wants dead. So...I have to man up.” A shy smile pulled on her lips. “When...when do we do this?”

“After Peter gets some sleep,” Ray said. “We have to talk to the show, get approval, rehearse...it'll be a couple days.”

“Show airs Fridays at twelve-thirty,” Peter said. “It's Monday. We've got time.”

“It's Tuesday evening,” Ray countered. 

Peter exhaled sharply, feeling as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach. “Wh-what? No, it's...it's...”

“Tuesday evening,” Ray repeated. 

Tuesday evening? Where had Sunday and Monday gone? He was losing time, just like when he was possessed. And the buzzing in his ear and the glowing...yes, now Ray was glowing too. Something was wrong. Something was coming. Where were Dana and Oscar? He couldn't remember when he had seen them last. “Where's Dana? Where's Oscar? Are they all right? I have to go home to them.” The anger at Erica was draining away as fear began to pump through his veins. The buzzing in his ears increased almost to an earsplitting whistle. The need for coffee vanished. “I have to...they're in danger. We're all in danger. I have to go! It wants me, if I get away it won't come after you....” Why couldn't he move quicker? He felt like he was slogging through water as he tried to head for the door. The sensation crawled through his body and up into his lungs. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't _breathe!_

Ray materialized next to him and Peter grabbed at him drunkenly, trying to stay on his feet and make for the door. Ray held up solidly, taking his weight and turning Peter towards the couch. “No,” Peter groaned, “I have to go.”

“No, you don't,” Ray countered. “They're fine, Peter. Erica's getting them on the phone. They're fine. We're fine.”

“You can't know that.” Peter tried to throw Ray's arm off but the man somehow had gotten a hundred pounds heavier in the past ten seconds. “And you need to lay off the donuts.”

“Stop drinking coffee and maybe I will,” Ray shot back. 

Coffee. The coffee mug was still on the counter. He would probably need it to survive the drive home. But he couldn't even turn around to grab it. The only way to go was forward and he did so, falling onto a soft surface. The couch. “I need the coffee.” His chest heaved. He was getting air but it wasn't enough. There just wasn't enough of anything. Air. Light. Coffee. Strength. _Is this an attack? Is the ghost back?_ “Something's wrong. I can't move. Dana? _Dana!?_ ”

“She's here.” 

Something solid was pushed into his hands. A telephone handset. He held it up to his face. “Dana?”

“Peter? Are you all right? You sound terrible.”

“Dana, where are you? Are you okay?”

“I'm at home. I'm all right. What's wrong? You sound like you can't breathe.”

“I can't.” He still couldn't, but he could hear her voice. It was warm and sweet and compassionate and sexy and safe. That was the most important thing. If she was in danger, she would have said. She was okay.

The handset was yanked from him and Peter grabbed for it. “Hey!”

“Dana, it's Ray.” How had Ray gotten the phone? Come to think of it, how had Ray gotten to the other side of the couch? “Peter's exhausted. He's delirious. He's all right, but if you can get over to the Firehouse tonight, I think it'd be good for him. And bring Oscar.”

Dana was safe. The screaming in his brain was subsiding, and the terror seemed to be subsiding with it. He tried to gasp and air rushed into his lungs, heady and sweet. He choked on the air, pain ripping through his body, and groaned loudly. “D-Dana?”

“She's coming, Peter.” Erica's voice was soft and right next to him again. It didn't scare him this time. “Close your eyes a moment. She'll be here when you open them up.”

Peter obeyed, finally taking a full breath in and letting it out. The relief that flooded his body was so great he repeated the process. Who knew breathing felt so good? 

Somewhere around the fourth breath, darkness swallowed him up.

~*~

Dana awoke to the scent of freshly brewed coffee. She left her eyes closed for a few moments, enjoying the delicious darkness and the smell caressing her nose, allowing herself to wake up in bits and pieces. She slowly became aware of softness under her cheek, a tickle near her nose, and scattered sounds of voices, clinks, and a low, permeating rumble. Her brown eyes finally opened to the sight of a darkened room and machines and cords running down into a hairy arm. The arm ended in fingers held by her own hand.

The memories came back in a wash, and she lifted her head with a gasp. Pain and dizziness shot through her as her body coldly reminded her that she had spent the night at a ninety-degree angle, and her hand convulsively clenched on the fingers in it. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured, reaching back to press a hand to her throbbing neck. She turned her head left and right, taking stock of where she was.

Peter lay on the bed, his snores rumbling the mattress. The hand in hers was limp with sleep and she reflexively lifted it to kiss his fingers tenderly. The next bed over held Oscar, who was equally out cold. Dana let go of Peter's hand and moved to Oscar's bed, her body creaking quietly in pain as it readjusted to normal motion.

Oscar was snoring on and off too, a soft, peaceful sound that was as humorous as it was worrisome. She hadn't heard him snoring before, and made a mental note to run him by a doctor when she could to make sure it wasn't indicative of an underlying problem.

She turned back to Peter and carefully touched his face. She was silently stunned to discover it was warm and dry. There was no indication of the nightmares that had been plaguing him for days. The bed around his body was dry, and other than the snoring he seemed to be peacefully asleep. _Well, that's a nice change._

The shrill ring of a phone cut the air, followed by Janine's traditional greeting. Judging from the additional rustling she was hearing, at least one or two of the Ghostbusters were actually in the Firehouse. The smell of the coffee was waking up Dana's stomach and her bladder kindly informed her that it might need some attention as well. Reluctantly, she left her sleeping boys.

~*~

Peter awoke early afternoon. One moment he was snoring and quiet, the next he was speaking. “Dana? Dana!”

Dana twisted around from where she had been playing with Oscar. “I'm here,” she called quietly. She checked to make sure Oscar wasn't going to kill himself in the next five minutes, and then stood up and hurried to the bed. Peter was sitting up, pulling off the leads, making the monitors whine and squeal a myriad of alarms. Dana tracked down the off switches and hit them as Peter swung his legs over the edge of the bed and started to stand up. “Whoa! Hold on!”

“I'm fine. I've been in this bed for days.” Peter forced himself to his feet and wobbled. “Okay...maybe ten more seconds....”

Dana sat next to him and he suddenly put his arms around her. She held him, the scent of his hair and body sneaking into her nose, the rough feel of his clothes covering up the soft skin underneath. _You weren't very good for me, you know_ , she had told him six months ago. But God, he'd gotten serious after Vigo, and she had noticed. His soft smile that reached his eyes when he looked at her, the warm, possessive feel of his body claiming hers, the taste of his lips...the terror at the carnival, the sounds of his screams, the frantic phone call last night. _I love you_ , she had told him a few days ago.

She meant it. 

“Where am I?” he finally asked, pulling away and looking around. “Oh.”

“You're in the bedroom at the Firehouse. Ray said you passed out on the couch last night.”

Peter seemed to take a moment to process, then suddenly his eyes widened. “What time is it? What day? How long was I out?”

Dana took his shoulders and held him still, looking into his eyes. “It's Wednesday afternoon. You fell asleep early evening yesterday. It hasn't been twenty-four hours.”

Peter visibly relaxed. “Oh man. Still haven't beaten my college record. Forty-one hours.” He looked a little too proud of that fact. “Anyone tell you how long I was up before yesterday?”

“Sunday morning. Peter, you can't do that.” Dana squeezed his shoulders and angled her head, forcing him to look into her eyes. “Ray said you were delirious and hallucinating. You can't do that. We need you. Oscar, and the Ghostbusters, and me. I understand that you want to protect us but not if you're going to hurt yourself doing it. Everyone is watching out for us. You have to trust them.”

Peter pursed his lips and shook his head, scoffing. “Dana, this thing walked into our home, scared the hell out of Oscar, and took me over without a second thought. It threw Janine around like she was a rag doll. It tried to drop of shelf of books on Ray's head and after failing to do that, it destroyed his place. It told me that it owed my family for what I had done to it. It doesn't matter how many people we have on this. It's going to come and it's going to hurt us again and if it wants me, maybe that's what I have to give it to make it stop.”

The words ripped at Dana's insides. She'd been hoping that Peter's peaceful night's sleep would have rejuvenated some kind of hope within him. That didn't seem to be the case. So, she pulled back and gave him a smart slap on the cheek.

He looked visibly stunned, his hand slowly rising to the reddening skin, confusion and surprise filling his eyes. “Ow.”

“Stop talking like that,” she said firmly. “Yes, you're right. It's probably going to come again, and it's probably going to try to hurt us. _But we know about it._ Ray and Erica spend all their free time reading and studying. Egon helps whenever he isn't at work. Winston's practically been my bodyguard for a week. In fact, our conductor at the Philharmonic tried to have him thrown out of rehearsal.” Her stomach twisted and her heart rate picked up. She hadn't really been thinking about this before she'd started talking, but as she continued she realized that this was something she needed to accept too. “The measures we're taking aren't to stop the ghost from getting to us. They're to stop it after it's attacked.” Yeah. That was definitely unsettling to realize. When had her life become a war zone?

Peter was still rubbing his cheek, but the growing panic on his face began to ease away. While her words had rammed home a new sense of anxiety and worry for her, it clearly soothed him...which was the important thing.

“Ray mentioned something yesterday,” he said. “The TV show.”

They'd caught her up on that. “Yes, he mentioned an interview with Erica on _World of the Psychic_ to see if we could get any help on identifying the ghost or how to get rid of it.”

“It's Wednesday....the show is on Fridays at twelve-thirty. I think I can talk Larry into changing up the guests. I need to call him.”

“You need to eat,” Dana countered, letting her hand slip from his shoulder to his hand, taking it.

“I will. I will. But I need to get this done. I need to _do_ something. I'll call takeout when I'm done.”

Dana let him stand. He looked over at Oscar, who was investigating a plastic dinosaur, and then back at Dana. His face was serious.

“I'm going to stop this,” he said.

Dana smiled. “I know,” she replied. “Go on, make your phone call.”


	10. The Interview

**Chapter X**

**The Interview**

Muriel Crane clicked purposefully around the tiny, tiled kitchen of her ranch-style home, putting away the dishes from her early lunch, and preparing to set the kettle for tea. Her gleaming grey hair was wrapped up in a neat bun, and she had an apron tied onto her blue gingham dress. It was simple fact that you put an apron on when walking into a kitchen, because anything could spill at any time, and not all stains were removable. She liked her gingham dress and was looking forward to showing it off when her friends came over for grouper and cribbage later on that evening.

She opened the refrigerator to check on the defrosting grouper. She'd cleaned and deboned the fish to the best of her abilities after it had been caught, and put the fillets on ice for later. 'Later' was going to be around 7 p.m. tonight, and she had a full afternoon before then. Which meant the next half an hour was going to be her only remaining relax time. And that meant tea.

Lila, her tortoise-shell cat, meowed impatiently to be let in from the porch. Muriel exited the kitchen and headed into the sun room addition to her home. It was fairly new but impeccably beautiful; bright wooden walls, ivory carpet and davenport, a gas fireplace, and a lovely wooden dining table set. The fireplace mantle held several pictures, including a high school photo of Erica, and a tintype of a beautiful, elderly woman with bright eyes. She was dressed in long, flowing robes and looked world-weary. A little placard under the tintype read: “Gramma Violet Crane.”

Muriel paused to turn on the television before heading over to open the door for Lila. The cat pranced in, tail high, and headed for her water bowl. Muriel turned back to the television.

A handsome man in a suit filled the screen, the curved white background behind him dancing with letters and planets. “Hello, everyone,” he said, “and welcome back to _World of the Psychic_! I'm Doctor Peter Venkman and I want to let you all know that today's program is going to be a special one. I'm here with a colleague and friend, Miss Erica Crane, who is going to be asking for your help in solving a terrible ghost problem!”

_What?_ Muriel's mouth dropped open as Venkman continued to talk. She slowly sank down into one of the chairs at the dining table. _What pickle have you gotten yourself into_ now _, Erica?_

Venkman...(Muriel refused to call him 'Doctor.' . Ghostbuster or not, he was clearly a fraud when it came to psychic phenomenons)...was gesturing to the side now, and the camera moved to reveal Erica Crane stepping up onto the pale violet platform. She looked healthy and attractive in a dark green scoop-neck shirt and black leggings, though as the camera zoomed in on her face Muriel could see the panic in her eyes. _What did you do_ , she thought viciously at Venkman, _to make her appear on national television?_ Erica hadn't been able to do a book report in second grade without reading it from a piece of paper at her desk. Now she was on national television? _This better not be the Ghostbuster she likes, because if he forced her onto national television....._

“So, a little introduction.” It was Venkman's voice but Erica's face on the screen. She was visibly pale but trying to buck up for the camera. She clearly didn't realize the camera was already on her. “Erica is an archivist at the Museum of Natural History. She's new to New York City from Eugene, Oregon. And a couple of weeks ago, she came into possession of an object...” Peter shifted his focus to Erica, “that you believe is responsible for some...spooky activity that's been going on in your life? Sure it's not an ex from Oregon?”

Erica laughed, an awkward and nervous-filled: “Ha!” followed by her covering her mouth with one hand and trying not to continue into hysterics. “Um...no. I mean yes. No it's..not an ex, yes I'm...sure....I...” She trailed off, uncertainty filling her eyes, and then coughed and reached for a small glass of water on the table next to her. She gulped down almost half of it before putting it down to continue. “I came across this little bookshop a couple of weeks ago. I can't explain why, but I felt like I had to go in. Like something was calling me, you know? And when I came out of the bookshop...I wasn't alone anymore.” 

The words chilled Muriel to the bone. _Erica, what did you do? What did you..._

“So you went into the bookshop and came out with...?” Venkman pressed expectantly.

Erica reached down next to her and brought up a small, leather-bound tome into the frame. The cover read: 'You have a job to do.'

Lila yowled. The teakettle whistled. But Muriel sat frozen, staring in horror at the screen.

~*~

Surreal.

Erica sat in an unattractive red chair that either forced her knees up way too high, or put a solid bar right where her rear rested. The floor under her was a pale purple, and so shiny that it practically reflected the ceiling of the studio. Over to her left was the back wall of the set, a curved piece of white material...could have been plastic, drywall, she had no idea...marked with silly colored balls and big white letters announcing 'WORLD OF THE PSYCHIC with Doctor Peter Venkman.' To her right sat a mess of cords, cameras, and people. Two cameras were trained on her and Peter and several huge overhead lights burned down on them both, raising the temperature to what felt like over a hundred degrees. One guy on a ladder held what looked like a huge lambswool duster over the two of them, shifting it in time with the questions and answers. A woman with a clipboard stood off to the side, directing everyone with silent movements. And beyond them, empty space and a hallway leading to the bright entryway of the studio.

There was no audience, no sensation of being watched by a million eyes. There was only her, Peter, and the camera, the window to the world. Erica knew intellectually that her face, with her too-thick eyebrows and pale, sweating skin, was on every television screen tuned to this channel in America. But it sure didn't feel like it. She felt like she was in a huge, overheated room with poor acoustics, chatting about her life story with Peter Venkman.

_This_ was national television?

Surreal.

She and Peter had worked out the details of what they were going to say only a few moments before going on stage. He'd told her that he usually kept things pretty loose on the show, flowing from one question to the next, building off of the interviewee's answers. But they'd both agreed that sticking to the topic at hand would be the best and most efficient way to go. Erica needed to get as much information out as she deemed necessary, and so Peter was letting her do most of the talking. It didn't help with the nerves at all. In fact, she nearly cracked when Peter quipped about the 'haunting' she was 'experiencing' actually being caused by an ex. A good, solid gulp of water refocused her mind.

And then, she began to speak.

“I came across this little bookshop a couple of weeks ago. I can't explain why, but I felt like I had to go in. Like something was calling me, you know? And when I came out of the bookshop...I wasn't alone anymore.” It wasn't completely a lie...just enough distortion to keep Peter and Ray out of the line of fire.

“So you went into the bookshop and came out with...?” Peter was cuing her. Erica didn't hesitate. She reached down and lifted the little leather-bound book, bringing it up so the camera...and the nation....could see it. She held her breath for a moment, convinced that the ghost was about to come tearing into the room and attack her and Peter both.

There was only silence.

Surreal.

Peter's chuckle echoed in the room. “A book? That seems a little anti-climactic. I mean, what else would you leave a bookshop with?”

Erica fixed her gaze on him. “A ghost? I mean, that's why I'm here. First it was the dreams. War. Cannon fire. Horses screaming and hooves pounding. I thought maybe I just had an overactive imagination. But then I started hearing sounds when I was awake. Hoofbeats and creaking sounds, like wagon wheels. In my apartment. At night, I can see candlelight flickering on my walls. I even drew all my curtains once and turned out all my lights and something...was still glowing.” It took all of her effort not to cringe. It just sounded like she was reading a standard haunting list with nothing to really back it up. She was convinced everyone could tell she was lying. _God, it's hot in here._

She opened the diary and Peter jumped a little, the look in his eyes one of fear. “Well,” he said, his voice a little thinner than usual, “it sounds like something is happening in that apartment of yours. Have you called anyone for help?”

“I called the Ghostbusters, but...they haven't been able to trap it. They said there's something there but it seems to be...transient. And it keeps coming back!”

This was a huge risk for Peter and the Ghostbusters, admitting on national television that there was a ghost they couldn't trap immediately. Of course, Peter already had damage control planned...or at least he'd said he had damage control ideas. Erica dearly hoped she had not just destroyed the business.

Peter looked directly at the camera now. “That's right,” he said, his voice steady and now all business. “The Ghostbusters need your help, America. This beautiful girl moved across the country to New York with the intention of helping make history, and history has come to haunt her instead. Help us help her.” He looked back to Erica. “Tell us more about the book.”

_Here we go._ Erica held it out, letting the camera get a good look. “There was something strange about it when I opened it. The words inside of it couldn't be read.” She opened the book, revealing the chickenscratch on the pages. 

Peter inspected it. His face was troubled when he looked up. “I can't read that.”

“I know. I couldn't either. The only part I could read was the front.” Erica flipped the book closed. “You have a job to do.” She reopened it and held it out. The camera zoomed in, proving Erica's point of the unreadable text...or so she hoped. Peter leaned over and looked at it, then leaned back, shaking his head.

“So what's the job?” he asked.

Erica shook her head. “I don't know. That's why I'm here. After I read the phrase on the front, I could read the book. It's written by Violet Sharp, a fortune teller in the late 1800s. She traveled with a carnival called Independence Faire. Most of her entries are about life on the road and the various people she meets. The names that keep appearing are Hugh and Eugenia Carlisle and Levi Spencer.” She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before continuing. “I started having the dreams the same night I started reading the book. The next night was when the noises started. I...I feel like the book is trying to tell me something. It came into my life and gave me a job. But...I can't do it!” She revealed the torn-out pages. “It's not a complete book. And there isn't enough revealed in the pages to tell me what to do. I think the rest of it is in the missing pages, but I have no idea where they are!” Her voice shook and tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she drew on her emotions from the past week. She'd been up for days trying to decipher Violet's writings. And she'd watched Peter spiral down into a sleep-deprived panic attack. “And worst of all, the last words I can read clearly tell me Levi is dead. Levi Spencer was killed or murdered or died in some way that I don't know about, and I think I _need_ to know because I think he came to me.” He had come – not to her, but to Peter, and none of them were any closer to a solution other than having the ghost show up and scream the answers at them. Which Ray had said he'd probably do...right before he killed Peter.

“ _Before the ghost attacked me, he said he owed my family. He said I killed him and that he owed my family.”_

Her speech had given Peter time to recover. “Hold on, you said you think Levi came to you?”

Erica bought some time by draining the glass of water next to her. As she set the glass down, she fought to remember what Peter had told her. “Yes. Two nights ago and last night. He's young. Handsome. He was wearing a uniform that looked like it was from the Civil War. But that's where the beauty ended. He started accusing me of...” Her throat closed in horror, thinking about what Peter must have felt as he stared at the ghost in his apartment.

_Oh God, Peter, what if this doesn't work?_

“Of what?” Peter asked. His eyes scanned hers, worriedly. “He accused you of what?” 

She knew he could see her losing her grip. She forced one foot onto the other and stepped on herself, trying to use the pain to keep herself focused for just a few more seconds. “Of _killing_ him,” she choked out. “But I swear I didn't. I _couldn't_ have. I mean, he's in a Civil War uniform! That was like a hundred and twenty-four years ago at least! And if I had family involved or something, they're long dead. There's nothing he can do to them and they can't apologize!” The tears brimming in her eyes worked free, sliding down her cheeks. She stared at Peter through blurring vision as the panic began to overwhelm her. “Why would he be coming after me? I didn't _do_ anything to him! All I did was read the cover of the stupid book!” 

“Of course you didn't do anything to him.” Peter's voice was soothing, but his gaze was far away. She'd gotten to him. “But he thinks you did. He thinks you did and that you should pay for it.” He looked up at the camera. “This is something completely new. We've never seen this before. We're asking for your help. This ghost has evaded the traps of the Ghostbusters. If you can help us catch it, you'll not only have saved this young woman, but you'll have all visitations from the Ghostbusters in future for free. Violet Sharp. Levi Spencer. A diary from the late 1800s. Help us help her. Call 555-0126. We'll be right back.”

“And we're out.” A lady with a clipboard trotted over, making eye contact with Erica. “Sure you can do this?”

Erica was shaking all over now, half in hysterics from the fear she'd worked up, half unable to believe that the hard part was still to come. Somewhere in the studio, the lines were ringing. People were answering the phones and listening to what the callers had to say. Some of them would be cranks, just trying to get a moment of fame or cash in on Peter's unbelievable offer. But hopefully...some of them would be serious. Some might even have answers. 

“I'm fine,” she said, her voice shaking as bad as her hands. “I know....I know I don't look fine but I promise, I'm fine. Can we get a fan in here or something, though?”

“She's a little champ, Loreen,” Peter said. 

The woman gave him a shocked look and then yelled: “Mike! Get Nona over here!”

Peter stood up. “I'll be right back. Take a little walk yourself. These lights are brutal.” He headed for the hallway, leaving Erica alone on set.

Well, relatively alone. The little place had become a blur of activity. Cameras were being shifted and moved, lights adjusted, the boom mike floating from one side of the room to the other. People darted this way and that, seemingly coming out of the woodwork as they readied the room for the next part of the show. Erica did as Peter suggested, sliding off of the chair and stumbling to the side, trying to stay out of the way without tripping on the myriad of cords on the floor. Once she was out of the line of fire of the lights, she felt the temperature considerably drop. _Are all sets like this? Or is it just uncomfortably hot to make his guests off-balance?_

A lady with kind eyes and puffy hair materialized next to Erica, dabbing at her face with a tissue. Erica had a feeling this was the aforementioned Nona, and muttered: “Sorry.”

“For what?” Nona's kind eyes didn't quite translate to her quick and professional voice.

“Oh, um....just...”

“Sweating?” Nona looked at her with an 'are you kidding' expression. After a moment of staring, her face began to soften a little. “Scared?”

Erica nodded. “Oh, but not...because of this. I mean...because of this but not because of....I'm scared of the ghost.”

Nona nodded. “You don't gotta keep up the act off-camera.”

Erica stared. “I'm not. I'm really not. Peter...I'm telling the truth. I know Peter's bag is debunking people but....”

“Well, he didn't attack you,” Nona agreed, going in to dab near her eye. “And he let you talk. That's the longest he's ever let someone go on without stopping them. He must like you.” She leaned back, eyeing Erica's skin. “You're lucky.”

She didn't believe her. The kindness in her eyes had reached her voice now, and there was a tinge of uncertainty in it. But this woman was too cool, too used to her job, to notice that someone different was sitting in the seat. Someone who was telling the truth was sitting in the seat. Erica longed, for a moment, for a little of the magic to happen. She'd seen it several times in the previous couple of weeks. Someone...Ray, Winston, Dana...had echoed her very thoughts out loud the moment after she'd thought them. And her intuitions, the ones that told her how someone felt, had been spot on. She'd felt Violet's pain and panic as she read the book, identifying so strongly with the woman and her intuitions. She wished now that she could convince Nona she wasn't just another target. If she could convince Nona, maybe someone else out there would believe them and call in.

“Need a tissue?” Nona's voice caught her attention. Erica realized she'd been staring at her hard enough to burn a hole in her skull, and her eyes were now watering and starting to spill over. The woman now looked vaguely uncomfortable.

“N-no,” she stuttered. “I just wish I could convince you I'm not lying. If I can't convince you, how can I convince anyone to believe...or to help me?”

Nona looked at her for a long moment. But before she could say anything, Peter came bouncing back in. Nona immediately turned and walked away, and Peter reached over and touched Erica's hand. She immediately looked at him, noticing water droplets caught in his hair and a tired, stressed droop to his mouth. _He's having as much trouble...probably more trouble...as I am._ She turned her hand in his and squeezed.

“Thirty seconds to air!” Loreen yelled.

“How're ya holding up?” Peter asked her softly. 

“Forget me,” she replied. “How about you?”

“You know me,” he grinned. But the grin was forced, the lie behind it all too clear.

“Ten seconds!”

“We'll get our answers,” she whispered. “This _will_ work, Peter. It _will_.”

The lights came up, the temperature leaping, and Erica pinned her lips shut. The cameraman signaled the last two seconds and then the music swelled. At the last second, Erica realized she had forgotten to let someone know her water glass was empty. _Oh no!_

“Welcome back to _World of the Psychic_!” Peter beamed at the camera. “I'm Doctor Peter Venkman, sitting here with my fine colleague, Miss Erica Crane. A few minutes ago, she told us the story of a haunting in her own home and I....on behalf of the Ghostbusters...asked America for help in identifying the ghost causing all the trouble. The phone lines are open, 555-0126. Please give us a call!”

Silence.

Erica's heart dropped into her shoes. She shifted her weight, and looked longingly at her water glass. To her shock, it was full. _Did I....? No, someone must have refilled it._ In great relief, she grabbed it and took a gulp.

The sound of a ringing phone cut through the air. Erica jumped and looked up reflexively, seeing the huge speakers set into the ceiling of the room. _There's a caller. Someone...is calling?!_

The line picked up and a horrendous squeal tore through the room. Erica yelped, slapping her hands over her ears, cringing away from the noise. Her adrenaline pounded through her veins as her mind began to shoot into order. Fight or flight. The ghost was here. It was screaming. Its voice was distorted and enraged and cutting past her fingers into her ears. Across from her Peter was waving his arms, screaming something. Was he in pain? Was it attacking him? She had to stop it!

“....off, shut it off, shut it....!” The sound stopped suddenly, Peter's voice filling the air and echoing off of the walls. He stopped, staring in surprise for a moment, then said: “Due to technical difficulties and the warning of the surgeon general, we had to cut off that call. We invite the caller to call back. Your call will be pushed to the front of the line.”

Back to silence. Erica, her ears still ringing from the sound, tried to push her shaking hands into her lap. _It must have been some kind of feedback._ She hoped they'd figure it out before the next call came. Assuming one did.

The phone rang again, and Peter gave a nod. The phone cycled through two more rings before it picked up, and a high, somewhat whiny voice echoed into the room. “Hello? Hello?”

“Hello!” Peter said, trying to keep his tone jovial. “I'm Doctor Peter Venkman and you're on the air!”

“Cool! I don't get to be on the air as much as you guys so, so this is a new experience!”

Erica didn't recognize the voice, but Peter suddenly sat back in his chair. His eyes narrowed slightly, and sparkled. He knew the caller, clearly, and wasn't eager to reveal the fact. _What's he going to do?_

“So, what information do you have that could help Miss Crane here?”

“W-Well, well, I've only been a Ghostbuster for a couple of months, you know, and I'm really more of a backup since I'm a tax lawyer, and I got a lot of big cases going on now. But I was thinking that the ghost sounded a lot like one of the ones we caught that time in the courtroom. You remember?”

“No. Tell me about it.” The glint in Peter's eyes was growing, as was Erica's glee. She remembered when they met outside the subway, his exaggerated bow at the man he'd almost knocked over. It was wonderful to see a little playfulness from him after the past week....even if it was at someone's expense and during what should have been a serious segment of the show. Barely hiding her smile, Erica looked over in time to see Loreen rolling her eyes. _Oh...maybe this isn't such a good idea...._

“Well it was that time that you guys made that big hole in First Avenue and the judge got really mad and started yelling and then he made all that slime blow up and there were those two ghosts. The ones that you caught that made you get the misstrangement order taken away. The criminals.”

“So you're saying it sounds like the ghost in Miss Crane's apartment is a criminal.”

“No, no, not really, I just thought it sounded like the ones in the courtroom, you know, maybe she read the book and the ghost in the book got mad because she disturbed it and now it's haunting her. Maybe she can throw the book into the trap and that'll make it go away.”

It was a valid thought....if it had been proven that the book was the source of the ghost. Erica kicked herself mentally for not bringing that up, but at the same time she knew she couldn't have said everything. Too much information would overwhelm people, confuse them. Still, she leaned forward, trying to interject into the conversation, bring it back around to the point. “Thanks for the thought, Mr....”

“Oh, m-my name's Louis. Louis Tully. And if you ever need your taxes done, I'm at Madison and 58th. It's a very beautiful corner, architecturally speaking, and there's a barber shop nearby because I think your hair could use a trim. It's very pretty but your face would look better if....”

Louis's voice suddenly cut off and Peter spoke up again. “You look beautiful as you are, Miss Crane. Haunted apartment and all.”

Erica couldn't help but giggle a little. Peter's eyes sparkled, and the phone rang again.

“Hello! I'm Doctor Peter Venkman, and you're on the air!”

“Hello?” 

The familiar, sand-papery voice cut the relaxing atmosphere and widened Erica's eyes. Her gaze flew to Peter. “Hello there!” he said, his voice still tinged with laughter. “Who's this?”

“This is Muriel Crane.”

_Muriel?_ Erica thought. _Muriel? What's she calling for?_

“I'm calling for you, Erica.”

Erica blinked. Had Muriel _heard_ her?

“Of course I can hear you,” Muriel chuckled. “And I must say, it's awfully brave of you to put yourself on national television to get help with your problem. But you should have come to me first!”

Erica's mind was reeling. Only a few moments before, she'd been wishing people could hear her thoughts and remembering that it seemed like people had at times. But to have Muriel respond to her twice in a row had completely distracted her from everything that was going on. She knew Peter was speaking, his eyes darting around from the camera to her to various locations in the room as he had a conversation with a disembodied voice, but she couldn't understand a word he was saying. There was a ringing in her ears and her brain felt like someone was sitting on it, squishing it. The heat from the lights wrapped around her in a suffocating cocoon. She didn't have room to _think,_ much less _breathe_.

“Erica? Erica, honey, are you all right?”

“Miss Crane?”

Muriel and Peter were both speaking now....to her. Erica blinked and looked up, not realizing she'd been staring at the book the whole time. Her face flushed a deep red. “Y-yes? Yes...what?”

“Erica, what did you do?” Muriel's voice was worried, thin. The earlier levity of her greeting had faded. “Hold up the book. I want to see it.”

Erica held the book up, its front cover plain to see.

“You have a job to do,” Muriel murmured over the line, evidently inspecting the cover. Another moment, then: “Where did you get that book?”

“An occult bookshop here in the city.”

“And you've been having dreams....?”

“And paranormal occurrences,” Peter chimed in.

“Wait your turn, Mr. Venkman,” Muriel said. “Erica's the one with the problem.”

Peter grinned slightly and sat back in his chair.

“Yes,” Erica answered, “...and p-paranormal occurrences. And a ghost. I think he was a soldier.” She had locked her eyes on Peter, but now she managed to wrench them free. She found herself staring into the camera, imagining Muriel on the other side of it. They were in the sun room on Muriel's ranch, sipping coffee, the smell of incense filling the air and mixing with the dying scents of breakfast, the sunlight glinting off of the pictures on the mantle above the fireplace.

“Levi Spencer.”

The name fell heavily through the air, shattering the illusion. Erica blinked, and saw Loreen waving her hand. She was pointing at Peter, mouthing _“Look at him! Look at him!”_ She did so.

“You saw Levi?” Muriel was saying. Even though the phone, Erica could hear the tone in her voice. It was one of wonder. Surprise. Not curiosity. Not repeating information. It was one of _familiarity._

Reality hit her like a ton of bricks. The next question came so fast Erica tripped over the words. “Did him kn...did...did you...know him?”

“No,” Muriel said, “but I knew Gramma Violet. And she knew Levi Spencer. I must say, this is extraordinary. I never thought I would ever know who he was, but now...you have Violet's diary, and Levi is mentioned in it?”

Erica was still back on the first sentence. _Gramma Violet?_ Her thoughts were on fire, blazing through every memory she had, trying to recall a time when she had heard the names 'Violet' or 'Levi' come out of anyone's mouth. _We'd suspected I had a connection to the book, but...family?_ If Violet was Muriel's grandmother, she was Erica's great-great-grandmother, which certainly put that mystery to rest. But what about the elusive Levi? Who was Levi Spencer?

“Who was Levi Spencer?” Peter asked. “And why are you so intrigued by him?”

Muriel was silent on the line long enough that Erica's heart began to race. “Muriel?” she asked worriedly. “Are you still there?”

“I am,” Muriel said, her voice trembling with an emotion Erica couldn't quite name. Was she happy? Sad? Scared?

“Who was Levi Spencer?” Peter pushed.

“I don't know, Mr. Venkman!” Muriel snapped. “Gramma Violet mentioned him from time to time. She was always upset, always begging forgiveness from him and Hugh. But I could never get her to tell me why she wanted that forgiveness. There was never any doubt in my mind that something terrible passed between them, something Violet felt responsible for, and she couldn't ever let go of it. His name was the last word she ever said. I never knew what happened, only that he haunted her until she died.”

_Haunted her._ Erica and Peter exchanged looks at the word usage. Erica opened the diary. “Muriel...the last two sentences in this diary that I can read say: “ _'_ _Levi is dead, and nothing I do will ever give him or me rest. So now I must take the only course of action left to me.'_ ” But the entry is in 1866....years before she died. The pages are ripped out after that. Do you...have any idea where the pages are?”

Muriel didn't say anything for a long moment, though an impatient meow over the line revealed they were still connected. When she did speak again, her voice was thin and tired. “You've stumbled upon the most frustrating mystery of my life and somehow, you've awoken something that ought not be awake. Based on what you've told me, I don't doubt for one second that Levi Spencer is your ghost. I only wish I knew more about him so I could help you. As to the pages...I can only guess.”

“What's your guess?” Something was better than nothing. The ghost had called Peter by name. Had threatened Peter by name. Even if Violet had a violent past with Levi, the ghost was still attacking Peter. There was still something missing, and the answer had to be in the missing pages.

“Violet died outside the fortune teller's wagon of Independence Faire somewhere in Missouri.” Muriel's voice was halting, likely uncomfortable revealing this information on national television. Funny...Erica had completely forgotten about the camera, about the heat, about the fact that everyone was watching her. It felt unimportant now. There were clues...actual clues. They had an ally. 

“If you know where that wagon is,” Muriel continued, “or even if it exists, I guess you could start there.”

“I do.”

The words came from Peter, and Erica knew the camera would be looking at him now. She almost wished it wasn't. The look on his face was one she had never seen before and hoped she would never, ever see again. It was the private look of a man putting the puzzle pieces together, only for them to show him a dreadful, horrific image. _Don't say it_ , she thought desperately. _Don't say it on national television._ She tried to look over at the cameraman, trying to figure out a way to signal him to go to commercial, or cut them off somehow. To her relief, she saw Loreen waving her hand. While she wasn't familiar with entertainment shorthand, she had a feeling the frantic circular motion meant either 'hurry up' or 'wrap it up'. Either way, this was almost over.

“Muriel, you said Violet was begging for forgiveness from Hugh Carlisle,” she burst out, trying to get one more piece of information. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Oh, Violet was obsessively protective of the Carlisles. Aside from my grandfather Edward, Hugh and Eugenia were her only close friends and she kept in touch with them and their children and grandchildren for as long as she could. She lost touch with them when Hugh's grandson changed his last name. It drove her into a panic. She died shortly after.”

“Changed his name?”

“To Venkman.” Muriel's voice was simultaneously accusatory and smug. “I helped Violet search for James for the last year or so of her life. I only found him after she died. He'd changed his name to 'Venkman'. So now it's more than possible, Mr. Venkman, that Hugh is as much your ancestor as Violet is Erica's. Perhaps you should search your own family tree to try and help her.”

“Perhaps I should,” Peter said, his voice thoughtful and far away. “Thank you very much for your call, Mrs. Crane. And thank you for the help you've given us.”

“Erica, you take care of yourself,” Muriel said. “I know you'll find the answers. And you're welcome, Mr. Venkman.”

The line went dead. The odd buzzing sound of a volume turned up way too high faded away. The large room was silent, the air heavy. The music for the exit of the show was playing but Peter was staring, frozen, into the camera. Erica gave him a count of three before she stood up. “Thank you for your time, Doctor Venkman,” she said, as clearly as she could. She was horrified to find her voice shaking. 

But it worked. Peter jerked, darting to his feet, and shook her hand. “I think we have some answers now, Erica. We are gonna get this taken care of.” Still holding her hand, he turned his head to look at the camera again. “I'm Peter Venkman. Thank you for tuning into this episode of _World of the Psychic_. And don't forget....” He pressed a finger to the side of his head, trying to smirk into the camera, but Erica could see the smirk didn't reach his eyes. It was his traditional signoff – but he was not there as he gave it.

“We're out,” Loreen said.


	11. The Wagon and the Dagger

**Chapter XI**

**The Wagon and the Dagger**

“The wagon.”

Peter Venkman paced relentlessly around the first floor of the Firehouse. Adrenaline pumped through his body, causing his nervous system to sing in his ears, drowning out most other noises. His eyes darted everywhere at once, but he saw nothing in front of it. Nothing, that is, except for a boxy, faded, red wagon, spoked wheels glinting gold in the sun, purple curtains fluttering, revealing glimpses of the word 'FORTUNE TELLER'. He could see it now, clear as day, driving past Ray's Occult Books, just moments before he'd seen Janine in the window. He could see it then, too...flashes of it from his dreams, just sitting there quietly as the world raged around it. And farther back, in the past. When he'd been younger. Moments of it around the corner as he walked by it on his way to the next booth, the next job. _It had been right there the whole time._

_How did I miss it? **How?**_

The Ghostbusters, Dana, Oscar, Erica, and Janine, were all scattered about the room. No one had said a word from the moment Peter and Erica emerged from the studio to the moment they hit the Firehouse. Now, Ray was on the phone, deep in discussion with either R or M Duke, impressing upon them the need for a small inspection of their fortune teller's wagon. Peter had broken the silence, unable in some ways to handle it any longer, and purely livid at not seeing the clues beforehand.

“The wagon,” he repeated.

“I never saw it,” Janine said. “Neither did Doctor Stantz.”

“But it was outside of our apartment when Peter was attacked,” Dana chimed in. “I remember seeing it in traffic as I got out of the car.”

“Red, with swirling designs,” Egon described.

“Gold wheels,” Winston agreed.

“And there was a sign at the carnival: “Fortune Teller Coming Soon.”,” Erica finished. “The wagon must have needed repair or something when it reached New York. If it was on a truck being driven around the city, all it would have needed to do was drive by the apartment and Ray's bookshop.”

“The two places aren't even close to each other!” Winston argued.

“Why it was at both places is irrelevant,” Egon said. “What is significant is that fact that it is the only other link between the bookshop and the apartment. We need to investigate. Without Peter.”

Peter spun around. “Excuse me?”

“If the wagon is the anchor for the ghost...”

“...then we go in there and blast him!” Peter strode across the room, glaring at Egon. “Why are we even discussing this? I'm not going to spend another night watching everyone die because we figured out where the ghost is and we didn't bust it!”

“But we _don't_ know,” Erica spoke up. “Look, yes, the wagon being at both attack sites is pretty much the certainty you need. But you still don't know how to kill the ghost. You said it ignored the trap at the bookshop. Do you really want to take the chance of opening up your proton packs and traps on a ghost that can't be caught that way? We're not going in to bust Levi. We're going in looking for clues on what happened.”

“We've been doing nothing but research all week!” Peter snapped. “The carnival packs up and leaves Sunday morning. We have today and tomorrow to figure this out.”

“Then give us today and most of tomorrow,” Erica countered. “Tomorrow night, if we don't have the answers, you go all out on the carnival. Levi's not going to leave New York without at least knowing we're on to him.”

Peter pursed his lips and resumed pacing. “I shouldn't have let you on national television. It's made you stubborn.”

Erica smiled. “Spending time with you has made me stubborn, Peter. I think you are the dictionary definition of the word.” 

“All right,” Ray said, clicking the phone into the receiver. “They've cleared two of us to inspect the fortune teller's wagon tomorrow between noon and one o'clock.”

“That's...precise,” Peter grumbled.

“That's when the fortune teller is on break.” Ray rubbed the back of his neck. “I've never heard of R or M Duke but they don't sound or act like they're from New York. Much, much too formal. And dismissive. I don't think they're taking us seriously. No proton packs, traps, or uniforms either.”

“Well, no one takes us seriously until the ghosts show up,” Peter muttered. Then: “Wait, no traps or proton packs?”

“The Dukes think that seeing a Ghostbuster at the carnival might frighten the children,” Ray shrugged.

“New Yorkers are more than accustomed to seeing us,” Egon said, surprisingly taking offense with the Dukes' restrictions. “Children have a higher tolerance for the paranormal than adults.”

“Maybe it's the Dukes who are afraid,” Erica mused.

Peter felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked to see Dana. Her face was concerned, but her eyes were warm and gentle and strong as always. She gave him a little push and he reluctantly followed, letting her sit him down on the couch beside Oscar. Oscar immediately crawled into his lap and got comfortable, looking wide-eyed at the gathered group.

Erica stood up and stretched before looking at Egon. “It's you and me heading down there tomorrow, right?”

“I'm driving,” Winston said. “In case you need backup, or someone to go get help.”

“The rest of us will stay here,” Ray affirmed. “I'll have a proton pack and a trap nearby in case we're all completely wrong in this situation. Until then, I guess we all better get some sleep. This one's gonna be tough.”

Everyone looked at each other for a few moments before Peter clapped his hands. “Well. I love it when a plan comes together.”

~*~

At Dana's request, Ray carpooled her, Peter, Oscar, Erica, and himself back to the apartment on E 77th. Peter didn't say a word the whole way. Erica stared out of the window for most of the ride, the tension in the car giving her a powerful headache. It thankfully began to ease off once Peter, Oscar, and Dana got into their apartment, though as the door closed she found herself rooted to the spot, unable or unwilling to move the few steps to her apartment. She would sit outside their door like a guard dog all night if she had to, headache or not.

“Come on, Erica,” Ray's voice was soft, and his hand took a gentle hold of hers. “They're going to be okay here.” He tugged on her. “You need sleep.”

It took most of Erica's strength to turn away and follow Ray to her door. “I think we have it right,” she said. “Levi is at the wagon. Egon said he was getting readings from all over the carnival. That means if the ghost's radius was at least the size of the carnival, slow-moving traffic would definitely give enough time for a prolonged attack.”

She paused outside her door and looked Ray in the eye. “Are we sure we can't just go to the carnival right now and have a look? I mean, you guys are Ghostbusters. Don't you have some kind of city pull?”

Ray chuckled. “Peter had it right. National television's had an effect on you.” He leaned against the wall. “We could have gone in in full uniform, but we weren't called or invited, and if we get attacked and destroy parts of the carnival and the owners told us not to come...it could be bad. And we could go incognito, but if something happened we wouldn't have the tools to protect ourselves. Much as I hate to admit it, we had to play by the rules on this one.”

Erica sighed and nodded. “I just...” She looked back at Peter's door. “I just want him to be safe. Dana's my best friend, and he's her family. You all are. I know busting ghosts is what you do but this one is so personal.”

Ray nodded. “This is definitely the meanest one we've ever seen. But like Egie said, it was only a matter of time before we started getting some of the more intense ghosts. New York nuisances are easy to clean up, but the world of the paranormal isn't a gentle one.”

Erica felt a twinge of fear in her stomach, and the impulse to ask Ray to come in and stay with her almost reached her lips. The subtext of what that could mean pounded through her head and she felt a blush climbing up her neck and into her face. She suddenly couldn't just open her door and walk in, so she quickly stepped up and embraced him, squeezing him so tightly he coughed. His arms tightened around her, no words coming from his mouth. Erica held on for a moment, reveling in a dream of hers coming true. His body was solid and strong, just like she'd thought, and warm sensations of safety slid through her. _We are going to make it through this_ , she thought.

“We are going to make it through this,” Ray murmured. “By this time tomorrow, Erica, we'll have our answers.”

Erica nodded against his shoulder and released him slowly, stepping back. She unlocked her door, opening it slowly. She didn't open it all the way, strangely shy about letting him see her apartment, and looked back at him. “Good night, Raymond,” she said, trying out his full name. It felt possessive and wonderful and beautiful all at once.

Ray reached out for her suddenly, catching her arm. Her eyes flicked to his face and froze. Her heart rate skyrocketed as she read the look in his eyes, the look that traveled slowly across his face and down his body. She didn't resist at all as he gently pulled her back to him, and it was only natural that her face tilted up and her mouth met his as it fell towards hers.

She'd thought for sure that this moment would destroy her, would overwrite everything in an explosion of white noise and sensory overload. But instead it felt like everything inside her was waking up and focusing down on one simple thought. _I don't want this to end. Don't let it end now. Not now._ She freed her arm from his grasp and wrapped herself around him in an embrace. And Ray, childlike, bubbly Ray, let his hand slide softly down her body to anchor around the small of her back, holding her firmly against him. _Closer. Closer._ His lips caught hers over and over, as though he was experimenting with what positions they could be in, with how much pressure they could take, with how much he could make her try to pull him even closer just by teasing contact. 

Somehow she wound up gripping his hair and he shivered against her. The sound that came out of his mouth was a simultaneous moan and giggle. “Ow! Hey!”

Erica pulled back, her eyes wide, her head spinning. She gasped, not realizing she had been holding her breath, and stuttered. “I...I...I'm...”

Ray immediately put his fingers on her mouth. “If the next word out of your mouth is 'sorry', I'm going to forbid you from speaking for a week. Which isn't going to help us out at all tomorrow.”

Erica worked the words around his fingers. “I'm....um....thinking....that....I've....wanted to do that since I saw you on TV six months ago.” It wasn't a secret and she cringed inside at the words. _Every teen movie has that line. Nice move, McFly._

Ray chuckled. “I'm thinking that I should wear a hat next time we do that.”

“I'll just pull it off,” Erica shot back, and then her mouth dropped open. _Did I just...?_

Ray laughed out loud and pulled her to him again, this time in a bear hug. He lifted her off of the ground, bringing an uncharacteristic squeal from her lips, and she dissolved into giggles. “Ray! Someone might have heard that!”

“Yeah,” Ray agreed. “Who cares?”

Erica couldn't stop her smile and he leaned in to kiss her again. This time, white noise did intrude on her mind, but it was a quiet white noise, one made of pleasure and security. When he pulled away this time, she wasn't able to speak above a whisper. “You still want to...go out, right? When this is over?”

Ray's eyebrows drew together. “Yeah. Don't you?”

“Yes.” She'd said something wrong. “Yes, of course, I just...”

“You thought that just because I kissed you, that was it?” Ray shook his head. “No. That's not it. Not by a long shot. I have a lot of plans for you and me and a kiss is just the start of them.”

Erica felt a thrill of excitement shoot through her and she smiled. “Oh...okay. Groovy.”

“My first plan,” Ray continued, “is for you and me to get a lot of rest tonight so we can save Peter's life tomorrow. After that, I'll get more creative.”

Erica laughed and let go of him. “I can go along with that.”

Ray winked at her. “Good night, Erica.”

“Good night.”

~*~

The phone rang early in the morning, shredding the silence in the Firehouse. Janine wasn't in. She was at her place, holding Egon in her arms. Ray was up, but he was getting an early morning coffee before heading to his shop to check on repairs. The parrot was awoken by the ringing, and he wasn't pleased at all. Screeching in rage, he opened his cage and flew over, knocking the handset off of the receiver. “Ghostbusters!” he said in his best imitation of Janine. “Whaddaya want?”

A voice, recognizable by its scratchiness, filled the air.

“I heard you, Mr. Venkman,” Muriel said. “I heard you say you knew where the wagon was. I'm in Chicago on a layover. I'm boarding a flight to New York right now. Don't do anything until I get there. If you do, he'll kill you. Do you understand me? Levi will kill you.” A final boarding call sounded behind her. _“Don't look for the wagon.”_

The line disconnected.

The parrot hopped around the desk, inspecting the handset, not quite sure how to put it back. Finally, he just returned to his cage, taking care to close the door. The humans were getting creative in keeping him locked up and he didn't want them to know he'd solved their latest trap. He began to eat breakfast nonchalantly.

When Janine walked in, she gave the uncradled phone a glare. “ _Again?_ I swear, if there's a ghost in here...” She slammed the phone down on the receiver with a sigh.

~*~

The first time Erica had come to Duke Brothers Carnival, the gathering of tents had been a bright and joyous creation, sitting on the banks of the sparkling East River under the warm sunlight. A week later, she stood at the entrance now, the noonday sun beating down on her and her heart pounding in her ears, having a truly difficult time stepping up to the booth and asking to be let in with permission of R and M Duke. The rollicking music turned her stomach, the pops of the balloons echoed like gunshots, and the ecstatic screaming of the kids had notes of terror and abandon to them.

She cast a desperate look to Egon, whose brow furrowed as he stared back. “What's wrong?”

Erica struggled to voice her discomfort. “It's just....wrong. The place is wrong.”

Egon sighed and slipped his PKE meter into his pocket. To Erica's surprise, he reached over and put a hand on her shoulder, locking his eyes onto her own. She wobbled a little under the intensity of his gaze. There was something comforting about it, and something...otherwordly. Not for the first time, she was taken aback by him. _You're so different than everyone else._

She finally realized he was talking. “...the past week. The carnival is no more or less wrong than it was the last time you were here. Your perception is what has changed, not the carnival.”

And of course, he was right. She swallowed and nodded. “Thank you.”

Egon let go, his face softening a little. “Don't be afraid, Erica. We may be on the front lines of something very dangerous, but I trust Raymond and Venkman. And Winston.” He nodded to the booth. “Are you going to announce our presence here?”

Erica looked over at the booth again. Compared to what was possibly in the carnival, talking to the carny letting everyone in seemed like child's play. Surprised to find her confidence surging, she walked over. “Good evening. I'm Erica Crane and this is Doctor Egon Spengler. We've been given permission by Mr. R and M Duke to enter the carnival.”

The carny blinked and picked up a walkie. She toggled it and spoke: “Mr. Duke? I have a Miss Erica Crane and Doctor Egon Spengler at the entrance. They say they're expected?”

A jovial, grandfatherly voice came back over the walkie. “Yes, let them in.” The transmission was garbled for a moment, and then suddenly the voice spoke again, sounding a little rushed: “Have they been made aware of the rules?”

“Very aware,” Erica said immediately.

“Then you may enter.”

Oh. The carny had been holding down the talk button. Erica hadn't anticipated speaking to one of the Dukes directly. She tried to shake off the sudden tension that seized her body, and she and Egon walked in.

The first time they had been here, the space for the fortune teller's wagon had been just inside the door. Now it was back near the magician's tent and sandbox. Erica swallowed anxiously as they entered the area. _Something is wrong._ The magician's tent was still empty. Only a couple of children played in the sandbox. This corner of the carnival was just as quiet as it had been a week ago. _That can't be a coincidence. But why would it be set up if it wasn't used or if it was dangerous?_ She glanced over at Egon, who looked at her when he detected her motion. There were plenty of questions in his eyes as well.

A uniformed guard stood outside the fortune teller's wagon. Erica didn't question what he was doing there and in fact was thankful to see him. She walked up and gave him a smile. “Erica Crane. Doctor Egon Spengler. We're here on permission from R and M Duke.”

“I know,” the guard said. “Go on.”

Erica turned her attention to the wagon, her eyes taking in the Bohemian swirls and red and purple coloring of the exterior. The purple curtains hanging over the windows were bleached from the sunlight, but the letters that said 'FORTUNE TELLER' glittered as bright as ever. The door in the side of the wagon was open, revealing a dark and intricate interior.

Erica climbed the steps slowly, a feeling of reverence stealing over her. This was Violet Sharp's wagon. She looked behind her, down at the ground, believing for a moment that she could see the figure of her great-great-grandmother laying there, her hand outstretched to the door. 

“ _Levi,”_ Violet whispered, and closed her eyes.

Erica turned away and walked in, the wagon creaking thematically as it took her weight.

The dark, close interior of the wagon accentuated its very nature. Incense soaked the air, making her dizzy. The dim light of oil lamps fought with the sunbeams pouring in through the open door. Curtains of various thin fabrics covered the walls, busily patterned designs dancing over them. Statues of religious figures and pagan symbols lay scattered about. A small table adorned with a thin, blue cloth showcased a crystal ball. Two chairs sat around the table. Nearby, a small counter held scatterings of tea leaves, bones, cards, and other trappings. Pieces of fabric barely hid the cupboard doors under the counter. Erica's eyebrows climbed and her stomach turned as she recognized hints of voodooism and witchcraft. The question was, was this the current fortune teller's own personal style, or remnants from Violet's life? How much of this wagon still belonged to Violet Sharp?

She pushed aside a thin, nylon curtain, and was stunned to see a whole other section of the wagon, including tools, a stove, a cupboard stuffed with linens and cooking pots, and a bed. _Well if this was a person's whole life, they would have needed things like a cooking pot, a place to sleep, an extra...wagon wheel._ There was one just poking out from under the bed. _This is historically fascinating!_ Her mind began to slip sideways from their mission, cataloging the items she saw and painting a picture of the time and place of origin for the wagon.

“There's definitely something here.”

Erica jumped, spinning around with a gasp. She had neither heard Egon come in, nor had she heard him activate the PKE meter, which was all but screaming with readings. His voice had been quiet, too, but enough to startle her. She stared at the little machine in his hands, trying to figure out how to read it, and realized that all she probably needed to know was that if the needle was in the red, it was bad. Or...active. Or...there was something there, like he'd said. _Why didn't I learn how to read one of these things before coming here? Stupid!_

“Can you tell what?” she whispered, looking back towards the bed. “Or maybe...where?”

“I'm here.”

Erica had enough time to think _what?_ before something hit her head. Her vision swam into nothing as she fell forward onto the bed.

~*~

He didn't quite know what to do next.

Levi Spencer had spent years learning how to possess people and get it right. It was a complicated thing for a ghost. The first few times he'd tried it, the body had simply evacuated itself as the brain that controlled it ceased to function. The mess...and the smell...had been just embarrassing. He'd started to learn that it was better to ease into the motor functions than go straight for the brain, grab control of the body before attacking the mind. Even that was difficult to achieve, because if he didn't get the correct control in time, the body fell to the ground and injured itself, and he was already weakened. He'd taken his time with the process, wanting to get it perfect for the ultimate possession.

_Peter Venkman._

Even the name filled him with such blind hate that his hand contracted into a fist. The little machine in it cracked and broke under the new strength, and a growl eased out of his throat. He dropped the machine and whirled around, ready to stomp out of the wagon and head straight for the building at 110 North Moore Street. He could feel Venkman's presence there.

_The girl._

He hadn't even quite realized he'd successfully possessed the tall man who had come in. Now, as the man's thoughts and memories filled his own mind, he paused and took a deep breath. It was time for strategy, not action. The chance he'd had to possess Venkman had been fortuitous, and though he'd put enough energy into it to torture the man, he'd been pulled out before actually killing him. That wouldn't happen again. He had control of one of Venkman's friends. He didn't need to possess him. He could just stab him in the back.

The way Hugh had stabbed him.

Levi moved the tall man to the bed, reaching over and lifting the girl onto it. He was still working at the possession: all of his motions were a second or two behind the order to carry them out. He would have to be careful of that.

He dropped to his knees and reached under the bed for the latch on the floor. Prying it open, he wormed his way close enough to withdraw a rusted iron box from the hidden compartment. The box was open, but Levi squeaked the lid a couple more inches back, enough to get his hand in there and pull out the old dagger.

The dagger was simple: a sharp blade and a wooden handle wrapped in leather. But to Levi, it was everything. It was the reason he was dead _and_ the reason he was alive. As his soul had started to soar towards the doors of heaven, Violet's sweet voice had filled his existence. To his horror, she had pulled him back to the world of the living, compelling and binding him to the instrument of his death. He'd never understood why and she'd buried him in an iron box before he got his answers.

He wanted to kill her as much as Hugh for that. _The damned church bell couldn't leave well enough alone._ His lips twisted in anger as he stood up and looked down at the form of the girl on the bed. He roughly flipped her onto her back. Her long hair sprayed across the ornate covers and her full lips were closed. _'Least she ain't ringin' now._ Did he mean Violet or her descendant? He wasn't sure...it was hard to think past the hate sometimes.

But what to do now? According to the man...named Spengler, an odd name if Levi had ever heard one, and he'd worked in a damn carnival...she would be expected home. And there was a driver sitting at the wheel of a car, prepared to take her there. Now that he had the dagger and the right person possessed, he knew he could go. He could find his way to the Firehouse, or possibly even infiltrate Venkman's home and kill his wife and son in front of his eyes before finally, truly, exacting his revenge. But the world had changed, and though Levi had seen the changes, he hadn't been able to truly escape the carnival. It would be unfamiliar territory. He'd been just barely a man when he died. He'd learned enough since then to know that giving up familiar territory could make or break a fight. 

He was ready to kill. He wanted to kill. Which meant he had to get it exactly right. If he failed and was trapped in this world forever with no peace and no absolution...

It was unthinkable.

He grabbed a lighter from the counter of statuettes and stepped out of the wagon, blinking at the bright sunlight. Sounds and smells and sensations assaulted him and he wobbled for only a moment before regaining himself. Almost nothing affected him as a ghost, so the feeling of corporeality came as an occasional shock.

“She's fainted,” he said to the guard. “The smell.”

The guard immediately came in. “Let's get her to the nurse.” He pushed past Levi and moved for the bed to pick up the swooning woman. 

Levi smirked and picked up the bronze statue he'd used to knock out the girl. He swung with all of his might, cracking it against the guard's head. It was enough; the guard groaned and dropped bonelessly, half on the girl, half on the bed. Levi shoved the statue into his pocket and reached into the cupboard under the shelf. He pulled out three large jugs of lamp oil, and turned to exit the wagon, malicious glee filling him as his plan began to come together. His eagerness worked against him; he tripped going down the stairs, and fell flat on his face. The statue fell out of his pocket but he didn't notice. He scrambled to pick up the lamp oil and looked around quickly. 

A carny stood near him. The name on her shirt read: “Sunny”. She had a somewhat shocked look on her face. “Hey, you were here last week.”

“I've been here a lot longer than that,” Levi said. He unscrewed the jug of lamp oil and began to toss its contents on the wooden frame of the wagon and on the nylon curtains hanging from the roof.

“What are you doing?” Sunny's hands came into view, scrabbling at the jug. Levi effortlessly shoved her away. He shot a look at the door, which swung shut, locking at his supernatural command. He turned to look at Sunny, who was grabbing her walkie.

“Security! I need security at Sophie's wagon!” She stared at him, half-terrified he would come for her, half-daring him to do so. He didn't. He waited until she finished the call, unscrewing the second jug of lamp oil, the mad smile never leaving his face. When she was done, he ignited the lighter, touching it to the curtains. Aided by the oil and light cloth, the flame hungrily shot over the curtains and onto the wagon.

“Are you mad?” Sunny yelled.

“Find me Peter Venkman,” Levi said, and tossed some lamp oil at her. She scrambled to get out of the way, shrieking in terror. Levi held out the lighter, advancing on her. “Bring him here. I'll be waiting.”

Sunny ran. Levi followed her, spilling the contents of the next jug on random cloth targets, piece by piece setting the carnival ablaze.

“Find me Venkman!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, moving towards the center of the carnival, randomly splashing and igniting lamp oil on any cloth he could find. _“Find me Venkman!”_

~*~

The phone rang, the sound echoing in the Firehouse. The inhabitants looked at each other with mixtures of worry and horror before their eyes slid to Janine, who reached over and picked up the phone. “Ghostbusters,” she said.

“It's Winston!” The voice on the line was tense. “I need the guys here. Full gear. You're probably going to get a call from the Dukes any moment.”

Janine's heart dropped into her shoes and her hand tightened on the receiver. “What happened?” Peter and Ray were already in motion, having read the look on her face.

“I don't know,” Winston said, “but something in there caught on fire and everyone's screaming and talking about some madman with a lighter and jug of lamp oil.”

Janine's brow furrowed. “Doesn't that sound like something for the police?”

Winston was silent for a moment before continuing. “Not when the madman is Spengler. And he's yelling for Venkman.”

Janine felt the phone slip out of her hand.

~*~

“Can't this thing go any faster?” Muriel glared at the driver of the cab through the rearview mirror as he expertly wove through the Brooklyn streets.

“It can,” the cabbie shot back, “if you want to pay for my speeding ticket.”

Muriel pondered the thought. The chances of them getting caught by the cops, the length of time the stop would make, and the amount of the ticket she would have to pay for...plus if they got stopped more than once... “I'm an 89 year old woman and I can run faster than this car.” It was a frustrated pout but she sat back. “Don't think I didn't consider that offer, young man,” she added. “But a traffic stop will just cost us more time.”

“What are you late for?” the cabbie asked.

Muriel didn't even pause. “My grand-niece's life.”

“Oh, she's bein' born?”

“No,” Muriel looked out the window, adrenaline causing her hands to shake as the images shot through her mind. Fire. Smoke. “She's dying.”

The cabbie didn't say anything else, but the car began to speed up.

~*~

Winston was already suited up by the time Peter and Ray arrived.

“What happened?” Ray yelled, hauling on a proton pack.

“And whose idea was it for you to take the car?” Peter added,. “Do you know how bad traffic was getting here?”

“The girl I spoke to said the fire started at the fortune teller's wagon,” Winston rattled off the information, ignoring Peter. “She said Spengler walked out, closed the door, set the place on fire, and started yelling for Venkman.”

“What about Erica?” Ray asked.

“No idea,” Winston replied. “There's a security guard missing, too.”

“Mr. Venkman!”

The voice cut through the air, startling Peter. A look of disbelief crossed his face as he whirled around. _Is that.....?_

Muriel Crane was a tiny woman who pushed a shock wave of iron strength in front of her. Her grey hair was neatly styled on her head and her eyes had a determined spark in them that Peter had only seen in one other woman. _Dana._

“Ma'am, you have to move back!” Ray said, moving to intercept her. 

Muriel stopped and took a look at him. A knowing smile crossed her face. “Ah, it's _you_. Thank goodness.”

Ray looked confused. Muriel patted his arm and returned her attention to Peter. “You ignored my message!”

“What message? We get like a thousand a day!” _How did she get here so fast?_ They'd just been talking to her on the phone yesterday!

“Don't play coy, Mr. Venkman. I told you not to look for the wagon! I called you this morning!”

Peter looked at Ray and Winston. Both shook their heads. Winston was the one who spoke. “Janine said the phone was off the hook this morning. She thought it was a ghost.”

Peter had a feeling he knew what it was. “Or that damn bird!”

“Language!” Muriel scolded.

“That...darned bird! I swear, when I get my hands on that thing...”

“I have the pages.”

Muriel's interjection stopped Peter cold, and he looked back at her, shock and rage and fear all beginning to mix in a potent cocktail in his blood. Sound ceased to exist for a moment. “What?” It was a mixed cry of agony and anger.

Muriel reached in her bag and withdrew a number of pieces of ripped paper, all bearing the same chickenscratch as the diary. “I have the pages. I couldn't read them until yesterday, when I read the words on the front of Violet's diary.”

The Ghostbusters stared at her for a few seconds, but it was Ray who spoke first. Or rather, shouted first. “ _Why_ would you tell us to go looking for the wagon when you had the answers the whole time?” His voice cracked on the first word and his glare at Muriel would have melted steel.

But Muriel didn't flinch. “I had been searching for that wagon for years. I had no idea where it was and I certainly didn't think you would know! And...national television?” She shook her head. “I wasn't going to show my family business to the whole nation! And by the way,” she shot Peter a poisonous look, “you and I are going to have a talk about what you did to get Erica on television. Do you know how scared she was?”

“She wasn't the one being haunted!” Peter fired back, his temper beginning to fray as the panic built. _We have to get in there._ “It was me!”

It was Muriel's turn to look confused. “Wh-What?”

“The ghost has been tormenting Peter for weeks!” Ray said. “It destroyed my bookshop and it tried to kill him. Erica's been helping us track it down and we thought she'd be more sympathetic to the audience...”

“...thanks, Ray....” Peter muttered.

“....and she agreed to go on television to help us!” Ray finished.

“And she got paid!” Peter added. It seemed like an important thing to say.

The confusion on Muriel's face turned to pure horror. She shoved the pages at Peter. “She's still alive,” she said. “But you have to find her. Find her and give her these. She'll know what to do.”

“How do you know she's alive?” Ray asked.

Muriel looked at him and Ray's body jerked. A look of wonder and surprise crossed his face. “You're...”

“Go save her if you ever want to go on your date!” Muriel cut him off. She looked at Peter, her face revealing grief and compassion. “Mr. Venkman,” she said in a gentler voice, “I'm so sorry all of this even happened to you. It isn't your fault. None of it is.”

“What do you....of course it's not...what do you mean?”

Muriel pointed. “You'll understand. Get in there. Now! I'll get the paramedics!”

~*~

Erica thought for a moment that she had imagined the last twenty-four hours. The boiling lights from the set were still burning down on her, baking her brain to the point of a throbbing headache. Something heavy was pushing her into the seat. There was an angry roar as well, a crackling rumble that had to be feedback from the telephone. _Hang it up,_ she thought, trying to move. _Hang it up, we can take another call._

Then, her memory caught up. “Egon?” she asked. Her voice sounded muffled, and speaking made her head hurt worse. Was Egon pressing her into the floor...or...the bed in the fortune teller's wagon? He wasn't moving, and the heat was just as crushing. _We have to move. Something is very, very wrong._ “Egon, get off of me!” She twisted and wrestled, grabbing frantically at the bedsheets, pulling herself out from under him. 

Searing heat scored her cheek and she howled in pain, her arm reflexively trying to touch the area. She couldn't reach it; her hand impacted something solid and large. She inhaled, and something thick and ticklish poured into her throat, making her cough uncontrollably. Memories of movies and her own imagination filled in the blanks, and dread pulsed through her. _I'm trapped and the wagon is on fire. There are bits of it on me. Egon must have thrown himself on me to protect me. Oh God, he might be...._

The thought was too awful to finish.

“Help!” she tried to scream, but only managed to make herself cough more. _I have to get up and out. I have to get up and out._

“Peter Venkman!”

The voice was Egon's, close by. Outside the wagon. But it didn't sound like Egon's. It sounded furious and dangerous and...

_If Egon's outside, who is on me?_

She doubled her efforts, now trying to wrap the bedsheet around her as she fought herself free.

~*~

The carnival was emptying, policemen helping the innocents exit in every direction. They parted to let the Ghostbusters through, hardly saying a word. Peter could feel the fear beginning to grip him as the oh-so-familiar tents surrounded his vision. The smell of the funnel cakes slid into his nose, sweet and cloying. They passed the Whac-a-Mole, the climbing wall, the duck race. He could hear the barkers in his mind, clear as day and several years ago. _“Step up and shoot!” “Let us guess your age!” “Come see how much a human body can twist!” “Are you stronger than a god?”_

_Are you stronger than a god?_

_If someone asks you if you're a god..._

_Am I stronger than my past?_

Something was filling his nose and mouth, piercing at his eyes. He blinked, coming back to himself, and pulled in a sharp breath. Hot, ashy air assaulted his lungs and he doubled over, coughing. The sunlight overhead was thin, as though obscured by clouds. But there were no clouds in the sky.

_The carnival is on fire._

The tents around him were all burning, releasing waves of oppressive heat and clouds of choking smoke. Ray and Winston were right beside him, covering their mouths and noses, trying to get some oxygen through the thickness. A sudden wind blew, and another tent nearby caught light, smoke whirling out of it. Peter ducked away from it and pushed forward.

The fortune teller's wagon loomed up out of the smoke. It was almost destroyed, huge holes where the fire had burned through and the roof caved in. Peter felt his stomach sink. _Don't let Erica be in there. She doesn't deserve this. She didn't ask for this. And I really don't want to tell Muriel I got her great-niece killed._

 _She said none of this is your fault_ , said a little voice in his head. _Remember?_

 _My dreams. My parents. My carnival. My haunting. How is it_ not _?_

“Peter Venkman!”

The roar belonged to Egon Spengler. Peter peered through the smoke. “Egon?” he yelled in response. “Spengs?” _He didn't_ sound _like he was possessed._

Egon emerged from the smoke, which wrapped possessively around his body. He was dressed head to toe in the uniform of a Confederate soldier, His face was distorted, his glasses gone, his wide mouth almost shrunken down to a full-lipped pout. His eyes were sharp, like a hawk's, and a shadow of a beard and mustache circled his mouth and jaw. Wispy strands of long brown hair appeared and disappeared around his shoulders.

_Egon._ Peter's heart wrenched in his chest as the reality took shape in front of him. _No, not Egon. No more. No more!_

He had to distract him. “If you wanted to make an appointment, you'll have to call and speak to our receptionist!” Peter advanced towards him, gesturing subtly with his hands for Winston and Ray to stay back. “And this...” he gestured to the fire all around them, “...is all going on your bill.”

“I already burned up Violet's family,” Egon growled back, his eyes blazing. “Now I got to finish yours.” The Southern accent altering his voice would have been hysterical if the hatred in it hadn't been so dire.

Looking at Egon now, Peter felt the fear and horror drain away, to be replaced with something he rarely felt. Hatred. _My parents died in a carnival accident. And you were the one that caused it._ He whirled around and thrust the pages at Ray, who took them without hesitation. Peter wasn't surprised to see the other man's eyes were wet. _I don't blame him. Between Erica and Egon, we're already having a hazard pay kind of day._ “Get her,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion, his protectiveness of Ray swelling in his chest. “I'll get Egon back. We're gonna get through this.”

Ray nodded.

Peter turned back to the ghost and took a step forward. Ray made for the wagon, and it came as a small comfort that Egon paid him no mind. _I have no idea how to get him out of Egon._ “You killed my parents,” he said, gritting the words out through a clenched jaw. The hatred reddened his vision as memories of the grief washed over him. “You left me alone in the world.” He had Ray and Egon, and later on Winston and Dana. But for a few brief moments, as he went from one phase of his life to another, he had had no one. No idea. No path. No hope. He had been broken, and he could feel the sharp edges still poking into every aspect of his life. _Dana._ “You wanted me to suffer, for what? I didn't do _anything_ to you!” It came out as a scream.

Egon smiled horribly and drew a dagger from his belt. “Remember this? You put it in my back, you yellow-belly Yank. ” He drew himself up, preparing to charge, his face settling into a mask of bloodlust and eagerness. “And I changed my mind. I ain't gonna kill any more of your family. I'm just gonna do you the same way you did me.” 

Peter charged, a howl exploding from his throat.

~*~

The fire licked at Ray's clothing as he fought with the door to the wagon. It had been bolted shut from the inside, though how he had no idea. Unfortunately, even if he tried to get it open, the fact remained that the fire had melted the door to the frame. His only way into the wagon was going to be manmade.

“Erica?” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Can you hear me?”

No answer. _God, no. Not her and Egie both._ The smoke burned his eyes, bringing the tears welling in them down his cheeks. A sharp intake of breath cut at his throat, and he coughed, pushing away the urge to cry. He held on to Muriel's words. _She's still alive._ Erica's smiling face floated in front of his eyes for a moment, and he thought he felt her hand yanking his hair again. _She can pull all of my hair out if she's still alive. I don't care._

He drew the stick from the proton pack and aimed it at the wagon. _If I can score the top of the door, I might be able to free it...._

_...as long as she isn't standing inside the door._

The risk was too great. But he had no idea what else to do! He cast another look around...

….and saw a heavy bronze statue laying on the ground.

Ray's mind raced. He had no idea what the statue was doing there, but his mind put two and two together quickly.

A battle cry filled the air behind him, and he turned to see Peter, proton pack and all, charging Egon. The impact took both men off their feet, smashing to the ground with heavy, metallic thuds. _Egie's going to kill him if he breaks that equipment..._

Ray grabbed the statue from the ground. “Erica, duck!” he roared as he hurled it at one of the windows. It would still hurt if it hit Erica, but at least it wouldn't kill her instantly.

The statue smashed through the window and Ray leaped at it, grabbing at the wheel and scrabbling for the window ledge. The heat from the fire scored him, and a blast roared out over his head as new oxygen fueled the burning inside. He yelped in pain as splinters from the wood cut his fingers, and then he hauled himself up and inside.

Smashing and curses filled the tiny space as Ray writhed around, trying to get his feet under him and get away from the blaze still filling the area. Coughing caught his attention as well, and he moved his watering eyes to the bed, where a figure was struggling to get out from under a heavy piece of burning wood. “Erica!” he shouted, dissolving into coughs. He moved over and grabbed the wood, hauling it sideways. The body of the security guard lay under the wood, and Erica was struggling to get out from under it. She was coughing, but a smile broke out over her face as she looked up to see him.

“Ray!”

The wagon rocked suddenly, statues and lamps falling over, adding oil and fuel to the fire. Ray grabbed Erica and pulled her free. He looked at the line of fire between them and the door and gritted his teeth. _Out. It's right there. Just...out._

He hurled himself through the flames, smashing into the door with all of his weight. The fire bit at them, and Erica screamed. Ray reared back and hit the door again. “Come _on_!” he yelled.

The third hit forced the door open. Ray and Erica flew out, crashing down the stairs. _Forget Peter. Egon's going to kill_ me _._ He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pages. True to the legend, they were unmarked and unreadable. He shoved them at Erica. “It's the missing pages. Muriel had them. She says you'll know what they say!”

He turned and headed back for the security guard.

~*~

Erica watched Ray go, clutching the pages, half-sobbing in panic and shock. The pain from the burns radiated around her body, and the world around her was comprised of screaming and flames. She barely even registered what he said, and screamed: “Don't go!” at him. 

Either he didn't hear her or he ignored her, but he was back inside the burning wagon, trying to free the man who had likely saved her from the initial impact of the fire.

A crashing sound brought her around. Winston was darting back and forth, aiming the wand from the proton pack, seemingly trying to get a shot in on two wrestling figures. As Erica watched, one of them...Peter....stood up and shrugged off his proton pack, letting it crash to the ground. 

The other figure was Egon, and yet it wasn't. He wore a Confederate uniform, and looked like bad special effects. As he moved, he seemed to leave a trail behind him, as though two bodies were trying to occupy the same space.

_Levi possessed Egon and knocked me out. He tried to kill me. He almost succeeded._

“I'm glad you're all right, but I could use a little help!” Winston shouted, spotting her.

Peter looked over to her as well, and relief flooded his face. It was short-lived, because Levi took advantage of the pause to land a solid punch.

Erica knew she likely had seconds before Levi got curious about why Peter had gotten distracted. She looked down at the pages in her hand.

The first line stopped her breath.

_“ 'I could never tell Levi that I was the spy for Shaw's Mill,' ”_ Violet wrote. _“ 'Now, Hugh is in danger because of my cowardice. Levi is going to try to kill him tonight. If he succeeds, I am responsible for Hugh's death. If he fails, at least he knows he will have done his best to avenge his family._

_“I have to do everything possible to make sure he fails.' ”_

Erica flipped the page over. The back of it was empty. She went to the next one. It was continued from a previous page. _“ '...undo what I have done is to repeat it. I knew going down the occult path would curse me forever. But I had hoped I could free Levi and Hugh of my cowardice. With James gone, I have no way to give Levi's soul rest now. I can only hope that if I go to him, he will hear me. And he will stop. He will stop until I reach Hell, and then I can fight him forever._

_“Hugh, Eugenia, forgive me._

_“My children, forgive me._

_“Levi, forgive me.' ”_

Erica looked up at the fighting men, not even realizing tears were streaming down her cheeks. Violet's agony washed over her and through her.

And she knew.

~*~

Peter didn't think he'd ever hurt this much. He'd walked up countless flights of stairs. He'd run through the city streets. He'd fought the proton streams as they curled and screamed through the air, trapping ghosts that fought back.

But damn, Levi was kicking his _ass_.

He hadn't thought Egon was that strong, but he figured having a little supernatural help was probably giving an extra boost. That being said, Egon's sharp elbows were great for finding little places in his ribs and kidneys, and his long arms and legs helped with distance. Levi may have been a Confederate soldier, but he knew exactly where to hit someone to hurt them, and he had definitely adapted to Egon's slender body. Peter was feeling the first twinges of fear. He was running out of ideas on how to attack Levi...and Levi wasn't slowing down.

_Am I stronger than my past?_

The answer was beginning to be _no_. How could he keep this up? Levi wasn't listening to him; he was too driven by his hatred. Nothing was going to change his mind, and he had the advantage in far too many ways, from inhabiting the body of one of Peter's best friends to...well, being a ghost that could dodge their proton streams.

He spat blood on the ground and glared at the ghost across from him. Levi still had that maniacal grin on his face, even though Egon's blood was now staining his uniform. He crooked a finger at Peter, who shook his head. “Naw, I'm good. How about we call it a draw and go get a beer?”

Levi snorted and flicked his hand. A wave of fire roared across the ground towards Peter, who dove out of the way. “Whoa-oh-oh, hey!” To his shock, he saw a proton beam skitter across the ground towards Egon, and bellowed: “Turn that damn thing off!”

“Thought I had a shot!” Winston shouted. “I saw him loose for a moment!”

Peter looked back to Levi and realized he saw it too. The strange special effect of Egon being half-ghost, half-human was clearer now. The man was wavering on his feet, but Peter could swear he saw something in his eyes, something that was more fear and determination than blind hate. _Egon's trying to push him out. He_ knows _he's possessed?_

“He's right,” Levi said. “I think I'll change my tactics.”

He separated from Egon, a mass of thick, grey, formless smoke. Egon's body crumpled to the ground, the dagger falling from his hand. Winston fired a proton stream at the smoke and another stream joined his from somewhere behind Peter. 

Peter spun to see Ray standing firm on the ground, Erica on one side of him, the body of a security guard on the other. He was covered in soot and ash, his skin shiny with sweat and red with burns. He was shooting a proton stream at Levi while Erica flipped through the pages in her hands.

“Peter, watch out!”

The cry came from Winston, but it was too late. Peter felt the impact, and had just enough time to realize what was happening before everything went dark.

He cried out in denial, expecting to smell the funnel cakes and hear the horse neighing as always. But instead, something cool and refreshing touched his face.

_Rain?_

He opened his eyes.

The world around him was in black and white. The soothing sound and sweet smell of rain filled the air. The air itself felt richer, fuller. It was cooler, too, and the ground was muddy. There was no fire, no smoke, no damage anywhere. The carnival was packed differently, closer together. He was on the edge of it. 

He looked at himself. His clothes were different too...a loose shirt and pants. Pajamas. It was night. He could feel the tickle of hair on the back of his neck.

_What the hell is happening?_

“Hugh!”

The shout came from behind him and he whirled around.

Levi stood there. He wore his uniform, and despite the rain it was spotless. Peter could see him clearly now, and he gasped. _He's just a kid._

Indeed, Levi Spencer was twenty if he was a day. He was strikingly handsome, with slightly pouted lips, an angular face, and a smattering of hair on his upper lip and over his jaw. His hair was long and wet from the rain. His eyes were intense, dark, entirely focused on Peter. He had a feeling Levi could see straight through him, and his stomach curled in revulsion. “Are we in your head now? I think this relationship is moving too fast for me.”

“Tonight is the night you killed me,” Levi said.

“Tonight is the night my _ancestor_ killed you!” Peter shot back. “I never did a thing. For goodness' sake, man, why would you spend every moment of your...undead...life thinking about how you died? I'd be grabbing Dana a couple things from Tiffany's! I'd be winning at hide and seek with Oscar, for once! I'd haunt some cake-eating bigwig and get my guys some money! Don't you have anyone you could help, instead of ruining someone's life?” He was heaving for breath, the adrenaline from the fight coming down. If he let it come down too far, he wasn't going to be able to fight.

Levi's handsome face twisted. “No. Because you killed them all. Shaw's Mill, Missouri. My friends. My family. Massacred. It's only fair, Hugh. It's only fair that I get your family for them.”

He came at Peter. _Oh no..._ Peter braced himself, trying to feel an adrenaline surge. He had nothing. _I'm in trouble._

Then, somewhere, far away, there was a scream. _“What are you doing? Erica, stop!”_

Levi's body struck Peter, and a new level of pain exploded inside of him, radiating out from a point somewhere in his upper back. He screamed, the world around him skipping and jumping like a bad signal on a television set. He tried to lift his arms to push away from Levi, but somehow he found himself pushed away, pushed back into a corner of his own mind. The world came into focus, and he found himself staring at Erica, the fire burning behind her, everything in color again. He was staring through his own eyes...but he still had no control over his body. _Get out of me!_ he howled at Levi.

Levi, however, wasn't paying attention. He seemed to be in shock, staring at Erica. “Violet?”

Peter tried to comprehend what he was seeing. Erica was there but, like Egon, she had distorted features. She seemed to be older and taller, her eyes the same but her mouth smaller, fuller and her cheekbones higher. _When did she get possessed?_

“I'm so sorry, Levi,” Erica choked. 

Sensation was beginning to return. _Is Levi losing control?_ He tried to move an arm. Still nothing. But he _could_ feel Erica. Her body was pressed against his, her arms wrapped securely around his back. They ended in pain. Her beautiful eyes had tears streaming out of them. Peter longed to wipe the tears away and hold her for a moment. Trapped inside his own body, he let himself actually, finally feel relief that she was alive. _I didn't kill her._

“I lied,” Erica said.

Levi blinked. “What?”

Erica's arms tightened on him and the pain in his upper back increased even more. _Stop it!_ Peter tried to send to her. _You're making it worse! Make it stop!_

“I was the spy who informed on the Confederate troops at Shaw's Mill,” Erica could barely get the words out. “I lied and told you it was Hugh because I knew if you attacked him he could stop you. You would have honored the deaths by attempting to avenge them, and that would have given you _some_ peace.” She sniffed and took in a deep breath. “I didn't count on how strong you were. You were going to kill Hugh and I had to stop you. I stabbed you in the back.”

Peter felt a whole new wave of terror overcome him. He tried to get control of an arm. One arm. Just to reach back to the point where the pain was the strongest. Just to prove to himself that Erica had actually stabbed _him_ with Levi's dagger.

“ _You._ ” The word was full of betrayal and pain and unimaginable hate. “You did.... _all_ of this.” Levi began to shake with rage.

“I did.” Erica clutched at him and the pain increased still. _Stop! Please stop!_ “I did, and I lived with it for the rest of my life. And now I'm bringing you to me.” She took another breath and focused her eyes on his. “I'm the one you want. Come find me in Hell, Levi. I'll be waiting.”

Erica let go of him, stepping back. Peter felt his body falling to the ground. Levi reached behind him, feeling the hilt of his dagger in his back. 

The scream he released then echoed through time and space. 

At the front of the carnival, Muriel Crane jerked and covered her ears, tears flooding her eyes. Fighting the paralyzing effects of the scream that seemed to be coming from their own souls, the paramedics beside her grabbed their gear and took off into the carnival.

Peter felt his entire body coming apart, an exquisite sensation of tearing skin and spraying blood, the cacophonous howl breaking his eardrums and vibrating the nerves in his teeth.

Levi shot out of him, corporeal for only a second before exploding into slime.


	12. The Aftermath

**Chapter XII**

**The Aftermath**

“I am sick of this bed!” Peter's voice echoed through the second floor of the Firehouse.

“Shut up, Dipshit!” the parrot squawked in response. 

Peter picked up a plastic fork and tried to twist to the side to stab the bird in the cage by his bed. Unfortunately, the motion sent sizzles of pain down his spine and he groaned loudly, forcing himself back to a straight line. The monitors beeped chastisingly and he stuck his tongue out at them. “When I get out of this bed....” he grumbled.

“Rrawk! Love you too!”

Peter blinked. “Where did you pick _that_ up?”

The bird rustled around the cage, deciding now to ignore the curious human. Peter rolled his eyes and pouted, frowning at all the wires sprouting from his arms and hands and head. “Haven't they taken enough readings? It's been _days_ ,” he muttered. Days since he was stabbed in the back, days since he'd been let out of the hospital. Days filled with getting Egon out of jail (even being possessed hadn't stopped him from being arrested for arson and assaulting a police officer) and Ray reopening his bookshop and the Duke Brothers Carnival setting a semi-permanent residence in New York as they tried to recover from their losses, (and started threatening to sue the Ghostbusters...again). Days of cleanup and stress and anxiety and physical therapy....

“I'm sick of it!” he repeated.

“It's almost over,” Dana said, coming into the room. “The doctors said you could start walking around on your own tomorrow if you wanted.”

“Well, it's about _time_!” Peter's mood lifted and he smiled at her. He couldn't help it, even just looking at her reminded him that everything, every day and every night of the last couple weeks, and every battle he had ever won, was worth it because she was still with him. He reached a hand to her as she sat next to him, setting down the tray of leftover Chinese, and she leaned over to kiss him, her lips soft but sure.

“I love you,” he murmured as she pulled away. For the first time in a while, the words came naturally, easily.

She grinned. “There now, was that so hard to say?”

Peter rolled his eyes and laughed softly, starting to eat. “I told you, if I had this kind of support, I'd be set for life by the end of the century.”

Dana chuckled and gave him a little shove. After a moment, her face grew serious. “I thought I'd lost you.”

Peter paused and then nodded. “I did too. Having a ghost die inside of you...only slightly better than being a giraffe in quicksand. Worse than being stabbed in the back, though.” His back twinged in agreement and he shifted uncomfortably.

“I mean it. Peter. I don't want to feel that way anymore. I...did some thinking while you were in the hospital.”

Women thinking was never a good thing when it came to conversations like this. Peter felt his stomach turn over. “Dana, wait....”

“What if I asked you?”

“Asked me what?”

“To marry me.”

Peter stared. This was a hundred percent _not_ what he had expected to come out of her mouth. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me.”

Peter's mind whirled. “You said I wasn't good for you.”

“I know.”

“You said I called you the ol' ball and chain.”

“You did.”

“You told me I never asked you and I always fell asleep when you brought it up.”

“That's true.”

“So....why? Why would you ask me to marry you?”

Dana smiled. “Because you asked that question. You've changed, Peter. I already know you'd do anything for me and Oscar. You've proven that. But you've changed too, inside. You've changed enough to ask why you deserve me, instead of just assuming you do and assuming I want you.”

For the first time in a long time, Peter found himself speechless. Dana grinned and leaned over to kiss him again. “Think about it.” 

She stood up and gracefully left the room.

~*~

_A day later_

Erica sat on the couch outside the Ghostbusters' sleeping quarters, her hands twisting anxiously together, staring at the book on her lap. She could hear the beeping of Peter's heart monitor in the next room and silently reveled in the sound, the steadiness of a heartbeat that she had almost snuffed out.

She had spent days holed up in her room at first, having gotten out of work thanks to nearly dying in the ghost-initiated carnival fire. Muriel had come to stay with her, not saying a word for much of it, just cooking and forcing her to eat. The two of them had gone to Ray's reopening, but Erica hadn't been able to interact with anyone and left right after the ribbon was cut. Muriel had come home later, telling her Ray had been worried about her and Peter had wanted to see her, but Erica had just shaken her head. She hadn't known when or if she was going to be able to look either of them in the eye again.

She'd stabbed a man in the back. With intent to kill him.

It wasn't entirely true. Violet, not Erica, had stabbed Levi, not Peter, in the back. Erica hadn't wanted to kill Peter. But when she'd realized the only way to stop Levi was to reenact his death, she'd willingly gone to grab the dagger in order to end someone's life. How could she accept that?

Touching the dagger had awoken something. Another mind had joined hers, another ghost. It hadn't been malicious or overpowering, just...compelling. When Levi had spoken the name, she'd realized who it was. And so she'd let it all play out, doing what Violet told her to do.

Which still didn't alleviate her guilt. She'd worked with one ghost to kill another...another that was in the body of her friend.

She'd nearly killed Peter. On purpose.

_You have to see Peter today_ , Muriel had said to her before leaving that morning. _I'm going to call you tonight to find out how it went. And Erica, you have to forgive yourself._

Seeing Peter was hard enough. How the hell was she supposed to forgive herself, too?

“I know you're out there. I can hear your hands twisting.”

Erica gasped and jumped, looking up to see Peter leaning against the doorframe, clad in a white robe. His hair was messy and his skin pasty, showing all the signs of extended bed rest, but his impish smile reached all the way to his eyes. He crooked a finger at her. “Come on over. And don't look under my robe.”

Erica rolled her eyes, gathered up the book, and followed him in. She perched on a chair near the door.

“Come on.” Peter hauled himself back into the bed and waved. “You're far away.”

“I shouldn't be here.” Her voice was shaking.

Peter's face grew stern. “None of that. Come here.” He hit the bed firmly.

Even though tears of panic welled in her eyes, Erica slowly moved over and sat beside him. The guilt closed her throat. She didn't dare look at him.

“There was no other way,” Peter said.

Erica let out a sob without meaning to, and then she couldn't stop. She clawed at the bed and sobbed uncontrollably. She sobbed for her own guilt and terror and for Violet's lifelong grief. It wasn't the first time she'd cried over the past few days, but she could feel it in hard waves that almost made her sick. Her body released everything in the presence of the man who was forgiving her.

Peter's hands touched her, pulling her down on him, petting her hair. He held her for several moments before speaking. “It was bad,” he said, “but you saved me. You saved Dana, and Ray, and Oscar. The only way I was going to win is if I killed Levi and...and I wasn't gonna be able to do that.” 

He couldn't. She heard it in his voice.

“He was beating me,” Peter continued. “I wasn't able to keep it up. Not on all the fronts. He was inside Egon. I couldn't kill him there. And inside my own head...luckily you got to him before I had to continue. He was beating me.” It was also the first time he'd said this aloud, she could tell. 

The waves were coming farther apart now. She slowly lifted her head, face red, eyes swollen, panting from the exertion of sobbing.

Peter was staring at her, his eyes serious. He reached over, grabbed some tissue from the stand beside the bed, and wiped a couple of tears from her cheeks. “You freed two families from a really, really bad mistake. Forget mismatching socks or dyeing your hair the wrong color. At least you haven't started a blood feud.” There was a little smile. “I can't thank you enough.”

“My family was responsible for it. And I tried to kill you on purpose.” She had to say it.

“I don't blame you for what your ancestors did,” Peter said. “How fair is that? I'd be in deep do-do if I had to pay for some of my father's mistakes. As for trying to kill me...” He trailed off for a moment before continuing. “That was what it had to be. I knew it might happen. I'm just happy the doctors were right there.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Being a Ghostbuster ain't a safe job. Gozer nearly killed us more than once. Hell, the potholes on First Avenue gave Egon a concussion! We've had close calls.”

Erica closed her eyes. Strong fingers took her chin and she opened them in surprise. 

Peter was staring directly at her. “I forgive you, Erica,” he said. “I guess you're going to have to forgive yourself too.”

Erica snorted. “Muriel said the same thing.”

“Muriel's the smartest old bat I've ever seen.” Peter suddenly peeked around her. “She's not here, is she? She didn't hear me?”

Erica laughed a little. “No. She's on her way to Oregon.”

“You know, for a moment there, I thought she was....you know.” Peter pretended to beam thoughts at her.

Erica nodded, remembering the TV interview. “I think she _is_ , at least a little. Violet was. It would certainly explain a lot of things.”

“Yes. Including how well you read people.”

Erica bobbed her eyebrows. “Exactly.” She doubted it. She'd been trying for days to talk to Muriel with her mind. No answers whatsoever. She either had no control or less ability than she hoped. Either way, no one would have to worry about her reading their minds.

Peter's grin got bigger. There was a knock at the door. Erica looked over to see Ray peering in. She blushed and smiled at him.

“Come on in, we're getting ready to play strip poker!” Peter's mood changed immediately, his silly grin crawling into his eyes, the seriousness evaporating.

Ray laughed. “Glad to see you here,” he added to Erica, coming over to touch her on the shoulder. Erica reached over and touched his fingers with her own. His presence reminded her of the other reason she had come to visit, and she reached down and pulled out the book.

“I have something to show you.” She opened the book and lay it on Peter's lap. “Look.”

Peter and Ray leaned over, inspecting the book. After a moment they both looked up, confused. “Yeah, I still can't read it?” Peter asked.

“Neither can I,” Erica revealed.

Ray's eyebrows went up.

Erica continued. “Shortly after Levi died, I went back to try and review the spell Violet used to bind him to the dagger. Just to make sure he was gone, you know? But I couldn't read the pages anymore. I checked the book and tried to repeat the phrase on it.” She closed it and held it out. “Look.”

The words were gone.

“The book fulfilled its purpose,” Ray said softly.

“I have no idea if Violet cast the spell or if she went to someone who did,” Erica said. “But she devoted her life to keeping her secrets. And now that her greatest...sin, I guess...is gone...the rest of it is locked away.”

“What are you going to do with the book?” Peter asked.

Easy. “Keep it,” Erica said. “I have it and the dagger still. They're still mine. Still my responsibility. I can remember a lot of what was written in there. And...it's family, you know? She was still my great-great-grandmother.”

Peter nodded. “I think that's best.”

The three sat in silence for a moment before Ray spoke up. “Now that I see Peter's okay...I was wondering, Erica, if you'd want to go get that lemonade we talked about. See where it fits in your list of drinks.” He reached around behind him and pulled out a baseball cap, setting it firmly on his head. His eyes danced mischievously and Erica laughed heartily.

Peter had started grinning when Ray asked his question, but now curiosity flickered in his eyes. “You want to explain the baseball cap, Ray?”

“Eh, we'll tell you when you're older,” Erica smirked at him.

Peter's face brightened and he gave Ray a little punch in the shoulder. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

Ray gave him a grin and held his hand out to Erica. She took it, and let him lead her from the room.

~*~

As Ray and Erica made their exit, Peter Venkman leaned back against the pillows, feeling freer and safer than he had in years. Letting a soft, genuine smile spread over his face, he closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

His dreams were peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for reading and reviewing this story. I appreciate all constructive criticism and thank Cait, Jack, and Mary once again for all they did for me.
> 
> Special thanks also to Brandy, who helped me with editing some of my longest chapters, and helped me see the story from the reader's perspective.


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